


An Uncommon Season

by t_fic (topaz), topaz, topaz119 (topaz)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Challenge: SPN Big Bang, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-10
Updated: 2011-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1816. Napoleon has been defeated and the Prince of Wales rules England as Regent. Mr. Jensen Ackles, younger brother to the Earl of Richardson, travels to town in order to find a wealthy bride, to help the family finances recover from several generations of excess and poor management. At the same time, Mr. Jeffrey Morgan is summoned home from the Continent at the express request of his autocratic grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Graham. A London Season progresses along standard lines of balls and routs, assemblies and daily promenades in the Park. As Jensen and Jeff meet over the faro table and become better acquainted as the weeks go by, this Season will prove to be most uncommon indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The library at Richardson Hall had always been a gloomy space, the heavy wooden paneling and dark stonework favored by the first Earl resisting all attempts made by the late Lady Richardson to lighten the mood or bring any kind of modern sensibility to the room. To Jensen, it had always represented home, constricting to be sure, but familiar as well. Comforting in a smothering sort of way, but now, in this particular interview, it was nothing but smothering.

"There is no other choice," Jensen repeated, with as much calm as he could muster, even as he poured them brandies with a lavish hand. Joshua, Fifth Earl of Richardson and Jensen’s older brother, accepted the glass with ill grace, but allowed Jensen to continue. "We have little time to argue, my lord."

"My lord," Joshua repeated bitterly. "For all the good it does us."

"Let us not forget the excellent cellar left to us." Jensen tipped his glass toward the portrait of Anthony, Third Earl of Richardson, their grandfather and the primary cause of their current predicament. The Black Earl, they called him--wild and extravagant, a legend among his peers. From a financial standpoint, it was perhaps fortunate that in his fortieth year, he accepted a wager--a not unusual happening--to race a number of young bloods along Kensington Turnpike on a horse commonly believed to be the very spawn of Satan. Anthony had been, by all accounts, half-centaur, but not even Centaurus himself could have overcome the prodigious quantities of brandy the Earl had imbibed prior to accepting the wager. He was thrown not a league from the finish, landed awkwardly and broke his neck, leaving behind a not-unrelieved widow, three daughters, a single son, and debts that rivaled his legendary reputation.

How Jensen’s father, the Fourth Earl, had managed, Jensen had no idea, but he had contrived to settle his sisters respectably and raise his own family, though he had not been able to clear much, if any, of the debts left to him by his profligate father. He was not what any might call an excellent administrator, but he had done what he might. Once grown, Joshua had assisted, with far more success, slowly beginning the long process of reclaiming the land from decades of neglect, but Mother’s slow decline had taken its toll, and no one had expected Father to follow so quickly.

"All is not lost," Jensen said, quietly. "Your plans for the estates are solid and ever have been. Who could have foreseen Father’s distraction and grief at Mother’s death? We need but a fresh influx of cash."

Joshua pushed back his chair and commenced pacing. "I cannot like it, Jen."

"There is nothing to work with, Josh," Jensen said quietly. He could not call his brother Richardson, not with his father’s death so fresh at hand. "There has never been much, but this last year, after Mother’s death--you know nothing was done, you know it far better than I." Josh had been raised to run the estates; moreover, he loved the land. He would be a good lord, if they could but find a way around the lack of ready money. It would not have been a good year regardless--the weather had been dismal; rents were down--but his father had left it far too late to try to recover.

"I fear the mortgages will be our ruin," Jensen said. If Josh had a head for overseeing the land, Jensen’s contribution had always been on the business side. "From how desperate Father’s notes sounded, I would not have been surprised to find Mother’s personal jewelry gone."

"We are not in such straits," Joshua said. "Not this year."

"But we will be before the next," Jensen said. "I know the sum total of the accounts as well as you. We cannot break the entail--" Joshua nodded grimly; Richardson Hall and the lands surrounding it, the townhouse in London, and assorted other properties were protected from being sold by the strongest of legal contracts. Unquestionably the sole reason the Black Earl had not gambled away everything, the restrictions had been put into place by his own father, who had seen the kind of man his son and heir was and had taken steps before his own passing. Useful, but constricting. The sale of a hunting box or one of the smaller farms would have provided a welcome influx of capital, but if the Black Earl could not break the entail, Jensen felt sure it could not be broken. "We have nothing left _but_ Mother’s jewelry," Jensen finished quietly.

"Margaret’s, now," Joshua said. Jensen nodded. By all rights Cecilia, Joshua’s wife, could have insisted the pieces come to her, but the thought would never cross her mind. To her, they were precious mementos of a mother’s love that only Margaret should have.

"Come, brother," Jensen said. "It is not complete madness. I confess I had no great plans to marry, especially not with the heirs you have provided, but I have no doubt it won’t be impossible to find a girl I can tolerate who has a portion large enough to see us through the worst of this. I know it has not been our custom, but it could be what saves us."

Amid all the turmoil of living with the results of the Black Earl’s excesses, their father had still married with no regard for the money a wife might bring with her, and had insisted Joshua do the same. It had perhaps been his only extravagance: to marry for love. Jensen could not help but admire the stubborn determination there, but he had no need to say that he would far rather find a wife than send Margaret out on the Marriage Mart in two years’ time. Joshua would not find it acceptable either. He would execute his duty as his sister’s guardian with serious intent, but for all his practical exterior Joshua was as soft-hearted a man as Jensen had ever met. He would as soon send his own fair daughter off to settle their fortunes as he would Margaret.

No, this was Jensen’s duty and he would see it through.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Mr. Jeffrey Morgan declined the offer of a hackney and turned to make his way home along the darkened streets. Even unaccustomed to it as he’d become, the crisp, almost cold air of April in London was a welcome change from the overly warm and perfumed rooms he’d just left. It was still unfashionably early in the Season; that plus the late hour meant he could make his way quietly and without passing anyone but the occasional constable.

Despite it going on toward four, a lamp shone through the curtains of the rooms he’d let, and Ferguson met him at the door.

"And how is Mrs. Parker this evening?" Ferguson accepted Jeff’s coat and beaver hat, tsking at the dampness of both. Jeff thought Ferguson’s civil tone was quite excellent given how little love was lost between him and Mary-Louise. Ferguson felt that Mary-Louise was common, and had his suspicions that she was no more married than he was; Mary-Louise suspected that Ferguson was as light-fingered as they came. Neither was incorrect; each tolerated the other at Jeff’s express request.

"In excellent form," Jeff answered. "She left three for dead before she even led us in to supper." The invitation had been for a quiet evening: a few hands of faro, a cold buffet, no inquiring eyes, no gossip, but whatever else could be said about the exclusive club run out of the house on the very edge of modish London--and it was rare that tongues were not wagging--time spent there was never dull. Nothing but the choicest of food--prepared by a chef who, it was whispered, had served Bonaparte himself--always accompanied by the perfect wines and brandies, and play deep enough that only the most serious gaming happened there.

"Of course," Ferguson answered, in the sort of voice one might use in discussing how very unexceptional the weather had been. He presented Jeff with the day’s mail, his face equally bland. It was late; Jeff could be excused for wincing as he recognized the strong, spidery handwriting on the envelope. Ferguson overlooked it, as well as Jeff’s sigh as he slit the envelope and skimmed the short missive.

"I trust her ladyship is well?" Ferguson asked, with far more feeling than was seemly. Jeff would never understand the regard in which his former thief of a valet held his terrifying grandmother.

"Still alive, at any rate," Jeff muttered, before he cleared his throat and added, "I’ve been summoned for an audience. Thursday, luncheon."

"Quite good, sir," Ferguson said, with satisfaction. "You’ll be needing afternoon dress then."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

For all that Jensen arrived in London a scant three days after Taylor and the small staff he’d brought along from Richardson Hall, the house on Cavendish Square showed nothing but a welcoming face. The brass knocker--unneeded as Taylor met Jensen before he even got halfway up the front steps--gleamed in the late afternoon sun; the marble floor of the entry shone; the library’s heavy wood paneling all but glowed. There was nothing to indicate that the house had stood unoccupied for the last two--no, three--years, all thoughts of London abandoned in the face of the late Lady Richardson’s poor health. Jensen had no doubts that the stables would be in equally fine condition; nor that dinner, should he choose to dine at home that evening, would be perfectly acceptable. His mother had run a fine household and Cecilia had stepped into the position with not the slightest hiccup. Domestic bliss at its finest.

The thought of it bored Jensen to the point of screaming.

Two letters lay on the silver tray in the hall; Jensen opened the one with the familiar handwriting--his younger sister’s exuberant and near-illegible scrawl--first.

 _Dearest Jen, I know exactly why you’ve dashed off to London and I find it perfectly dreadful of you not to bring me with you. I know that no one will be able to resist you, and it will be the end of our adventures together, because what sensible wife will want her husband to be running off to fetch his little sister home from her latest scrape?_

 _I desired Taylor to bring you a package when you arrived; in it, you will find the Most Hideous necklet and matching armband. You are to sell these--though I can’t imagine who will buy them, that is how horrible they are--and use the money to properly outfit yourself for the Season. I am sure that you are better by far than all the town dandies taken together, but Appearances Matter, no matter how many sermons Reverend Moore delivers on the subject. I am Very Certain that our fashions here in Devonshire do not match well with what is worn in town and I would not like for you to be taken as a rusticated bore._

 _Do not frown at this note; I quite loathe the necklet and Mama agreed with me with all her heart. You know that we sat together much when she was so very tired; what you do not know is that she shared with me all her memories, and of this particular piece, she said she could not ever bring herself to clasp it round her neck. She could not remember her Mama wearing it either, so you see you may sell it without fear of disappointing me. You would be doing me the kindest favor, indeed you would._

 _I have also taken the liberty of writing to Danneel. She bids me to tell you she waits for your visit at her home in Berkeley Square upon your earliest convenience and also requires me to tell you not to make an Appearance in Society before consulting with her first._

Jensen sighed but admired the strategy his sister had employed; telling him of any of this in person would have given him time to marshal a defense. Unless he was gravely underestimating her, he knew that the second letter on the tray would be from his very good friend, Danneel, now Lady Ross since her brilliant debut the Season prior and her subsequent marriage to the Marquess of Ross. He was not wrong; Danneel wrote that she was eagerly anticipating his call, and that she rode each afternoon in Hyde Park and was certain she would see him there.

Jensen thought of the last two days on the road, and of the comforts of finally being stationary, but he was, after all, in London with an agenda, one that Danneel could help him execute. He manfully repressed another sigh and rang for Taylor to tell the grooms to saddle his gelding while he brushed the worst of the mud from his boots and set out to find a wife.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The endless afternoon spectacle of well-dressed members of the _ton_ parading up and down Rotten Row had always tended to set Jeff’s teeth on edge.

"Remind me why I’m here again," he said to his friend of many long years, Jeremy, Viscount Merton.

"Frightened of your grandmother," Jeremy offered. He met Jeff’s glare with a bored shrug. "Not impugning your courage, y’know. Old Boney himself wouldn’t last the evening with her."

"I do actually like the old girl," Jeff said. "I meant, why do I let her drag me here _now_ , when every idiot in the nation is clogging the streets." A particularly modishly dressed member of the Dandy set minced his way along the park; Ixion, Jeff’s big chestnut gelding, tried to take exception to him. Jeff couldn’t blame him; the combination of pink-striped waistcoat and yellow pantaloons was particularly awful. Nevertheless, he brought the horse under control with a firm hand and tipped his hat to the Dandy.

"You like buying the good horseflesh out from under them," Jeremy said with a lazy smile. "It’s not nearly as much fun if you can’t see their faces."

"There is that," Jeff agreed. There was indeed something satisfying about skimming the best of Tattersall’s offerings out from under the ones who’d made it all but impossible for him to stay in England in the first place.

Jeremy exchanged nods with the Countess of Wortham and bowed slightly to the Duchess of Acton, all very correct and polite, and Jeff suppressed a sigh at the thought that the Season was only just beginning and he had several more months of this to look forward to. The sight of heads tipping together to whisper as he rode past did not ameliorate his mood in the slightest.

"Ah, excellent," Jeremy said as a couple turned the corner and trotted toward them, both riding horses that at least piqued Jeff’s interest: hers a pretty gray mare of high spirits, his a roan gelding with a steady eye and gait. "The lovely Marchioness of Ross," Jeremy said, as they drew closer. "Quite a magnificent sight."

"And not only because you won’t be vying with Ross for the hand of this Season’s Incomparable," Jeff said. Lady Ross did indeed cut a splendid figure in her stark, severely cut black riding habit, its tall hat with matching ostrich plume setting off her famously red hair and perfect complexion. Jeff knew Jeremy had pursued her hand the previous Season, but even hearing about it only by way of Jeremy’s infrequent and near-to-incoherent letters, Jeff knew the interest was only lackluster at best. Jeremy could be very charming when he wanted, but by all accounts Ross had been thunderstruck by the girl and had left all competitors dashed by the wayside in his pursuit.

"My lady," Jeremy offered as the other pair drew near. Lady Ross inclined her head civilly, and introduced her companion, Mr. Jensen Ackles, an old childhood friend. Jeremy dismissed him with a single glance, his eyes sweeping over the unadorned and painfully un-tailored lines of his greatcoat with immense condescension. For a brief second, Jeff thought he caught a glimmer of amusement in the cool green eyes that surveyed them in return, but it disappeared in a flash, leaving nothing but a bland affability in its wake.

Lady Ross noticed as well, Jeff was certain, but she continued the conversation, inquiring when Jeff had returned to London and asking after Jeremy's younger sister, with whom she had attended many of the same assemblies and balls the Season before.

"Ross and I are planning a small rout in the next weeks," she said. "It’s a trifle early in the Season yet; I’m happy to see you both in town. I shall be certain to send you invitations."

"Delighted," Jeremy said, and the two parties moved off in opposite directions. Again, all very correct and proper; everything that Jeff expected, nothing more. It made rounding the corner and almost riding into Miss Gabrielle Phillip, accompanied by her doting papa, Sir Robert--the very last people Jeff wanted to see--all the more of a shock.

Jeff could not help but stare, openly, rudely. He could not tear his eyes away. In the twenty years since he’d left London behind, he’d taken great care not to have this very thing, a chance meeting in public, happen, even going so far as to refuse all meetings in person for the last several years. He’d sometimes wondered if he was not indulging in fancies, but faced with this reality he could not think that he had been.

Robert stared back at Jeff, his eyes still as dark and fathomless as they had been those many years before. He wore his hair shorter now, as befitted a respected member of the Foreign Office, and his jacket was exquisitely tailored. If anything, he was even more handsome now than he had been as a youth, when his looks were a trifle too studious for the fashion.

"Sir," Robert said, after a frozen few seconds. "I had not heard you would be in town this season."

"My grandmother requests it," Jeff managed to answer, and there was a flicker of some strong emotion in Robert’s eyes. He had ever been fascinated by Jeff’s family; it would appear not to have changed over time.

"Perhaps we could meet; I believe we have some acquaintances in common we might catch up on," Robert said smoothly, not waiting for Jeff to answer before greeting Jeremy and introducing his daughter. Miss Philip nodded politely, but clearly did not understand what was amiss. Jeremy, though--Jeremy was perhaps the only person in London to know the significance of the scene playing out in front of him, and for once he did not indulge in his penchant for drama, merely returning the greeting and urging his horse forward. Jeff recovered enough to follow and the day slowly resumed its proper shape.

"I had thought you were through with all that," Jeremy murmured after some time. "Cut your ties, bought a house in Italy, started giving some thought to a more normal life."

"I am," Jeff said, with a sigh. "I did buy the villa--I even got to spend a month or two in it before Bonaparte escaped from St. Helena and the whole mess started anew. I would happily be there now, had not my grandmother decided it was time I showed my face again." Jeff was talking too much, he knew, but it was the first time he had seen Robert’s daughter. He had long known of her, of course, but seeing her as a woman grown, in town to make her debut, put an underline to just how many years he had been entangled with her father. It was a strangely wearying thought.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jensen took a few moments after breakfast to pen quick letters to both Joshua and Margaret. To Josh he merely wrote that he had arrived safely, and while he added a small amount of detail to Margaret's letter, it was nothing more than expressing Danneel's greetings and assuring his sister that he was following Danneel's guidance. The matter of the necklet he left unmentioned. He hadn't yet decided what to do about her plan, and if nothing else, not knowing his intentions would tease at her unmercifully, something he knew they both enjoyed rather more than they should.

While riding the previous day, Danneel had extracted his promise to call on her no later than two in the afternoon; before that, Jensen had plans of his own. Kripke, the London-based agent for the estate, called, as Jensen had requested, and Jensen commenced the delicate process of convincing Josh to step outside the strictest of bonds and maturities in matters of investments. He understood Josh’s hesitation in risking what little capital they had--the lessons of the Black Earl continued long after his death--but there were few heiresses whose portions alone could adequately settle the family needs, and even if Jensen was accepted by one of them, he would feel far better to have had more of a hand in resolving the predicament. Joshua would administer the estates with skill; Jensen could offer no help there. Seeking out opportunities for investment elsewhere, though--that was like to a giant puzzle, with clues to be found in accounts of the latest inventions and reports of places and peoples newly discovered. It was an extension of Jensen’s fascination with a world outside of Devonshire, but one that might have some value attached to it.

Danneel received him in the tastefully appointed drawing room at Ross’s Berkeley Square townhouse. She wore a simple gown of lawn, embroidered richly about the hem and sleeves, that no doubt cost half the earnings Josh would be happy to see from the estate for a quarter. She had a knot of fresh flowers at her belt and her hair was dressed so that it spilled becomingly over one shoulder--all in all, a charming picture of a young lady of the _ton_ , her stubborn determination betrayed only by the steely glint in her eye as Jensen crossed the room under her watchful gaze.

"I should turn and run now," Jensen said, as he took her hand in greeting. "I am well-acquainted that look--it precedes things I am better off not taking part in."

"Try not to be so simpleminded," Danneel said, with rather more severity than Jensen thought necessary. She waited until the butler withdrew, then said, "Margaret writes very frankly--"

"Yes," Jensen sighed. "Try as Miss Somerset might, she has yet to impress the importance of tact upon my sister."

"As excellent a governess as Miss Somerset is, I doubt anyone will have success with that duty," Danneel said, smiling. "I bring this up only to assure you that I do understand the full import of your spending the Season in town."

"Meg has already bidden me to follow your every direction, which I intend." Jensen did not add that he trusted Danneel not to play him for a fool, but he was certain she understood.

"Excellent." Danneel smiled at him, and it was easy to forget the drawing room they stood in, and the fabled Ross pearls that she wore in her ears and around her wrist, and see the friend who’d always been planning and scheming, even before she put her hair up and let her skirts down.

She rang for the butler and asked him to bring tea and to send her dresser to her. It was not an outrageous request; Jensen did not know why that steely glint had returned to her eye, but it had. Knowing that look, he settled himself to wait and sure enough, before tea could even be served, Miss Perkins entered the room, bringing with her a neatly dressed man, with dark hair and crackling eyes that he did not bother to hide, no matter that he was not a gentleman. Jensen arched an eyebrow sardonically at Danneel, who returned the expression and gestured them forward.

"Thank you, Perkins," Danneel said, and Miss Perkins left. She was, of course, completely discreet, but Jensen received the distinct impression that he’d been found wanting, an impression that did not dissipate under the twin gazes of Danneel and the man she introduced as Collins.

"Do stand up," Danneel told Jensen. "Collins?"

He circled Jensen slowly once, then twice, and then turned to address Danneel. "Yes," he said, simply, and Danneel bestowed one of her very best smiles on him.

"Excellent," she said. "Baines can give you the direction."

Collins inclined his head, and left, closing the door quietly behind him. Jensen transferred his gaze to Danneel’s very satisfied countenance.

"Dare I ask?"

"That, my dear, is your new valet." Danneel settled herself back upon the settee, spreading the skirts of her afternoon dress about her. "As a personal favor to me--and for the challenge--he will be taking over your personal outfitting."

"A challenge?" Jensen blinked at the insult inherent in the description.

"Financially speaking, yes." Danneel met Jensen’s gaze calmly. "He will remove his things to your townhouse directly and has assured me that he is on good enough address with the right tradesmen to have you presentable inside the week. Do not dare to leave the house until he is satisfied with your appearance."

"I feel I should point out that I have already done so," Jensen said dryly. "And at your command."

"Yes, and and that was a miscalculation for Lord Merton already has you marked as a provincial." Danneel held her tongue while Baines served the tea, waiting until he’d withdrawn to add, "Ride as early in the morning as you can; it’s early enough in the Season that few people will be about. We’ll introduce you at the rout we’re giving the week after next; if Collins is half as good as they say he is, no one will be the wiser by then."

Jensen stifled a sigh; this was, after all, the reason he was here.

"Jensen. You will have no trouble finding a young woman whose family will be happy to trade their money for your family name, for all that you’re the second son."

Jensen blinked a bit at that--it was not only Margaret who suffered from excessive frankness, it would seem.

"I will have it that it is _you_ who do the choosing and not be completely beholden to your new in-laws. Please allow me to do this for you, dearest."

There was nothing that Jensen could say to that, except to agree. Danneel smiled at him, and directed the conversation toward home and the many acquaintances they shared. It was a pleasant half-hour, and Jensen had just begun to take his leave when the door to the drawing room opened to admit the Marquess of Ross, clad in a caped greatcoat.

Jensen had not been able to attend the wedding; he had been in mourning for his mother, but he had heard a great many things about the marquess. Danneel introduced Jensen to him and they spent the next few minutes in conversation about Jensen’s arrival, and where he might find amusements while in the city.

At the news that his greys were ready, Lord Ross inquired if he might offer Jensen a ride. Given that the Ross matched greys were nearly as famous as the pearls Danneel wore, Jensen accepted the offer with alacrity.

"Do you dine at home this evening, Ross?"

"No, my dear. I plan on dinner at the club." Lord Ross hesitated in drawing on his driving gloves, arching an eyebrow toward Danneel. "I had thought you were to attend Lady Cowper’s musicale."

"Yes, of course," Danneel said, lightly enough that Jensen supposed he had imagined the flicker of disappointment he'd seen in her eyes. "It promises to be quite entertaining."

Jensen took his leave, swearing to follow all of Collins's strictures, and followed Lord Ross out to where his grooms had ready a sleek, high-slung perch phaeton with a perfectly matched pair between the traces.

"All right, Jenkins?" Ross stepped up to the seat, gathering the reins from a groom who was much younger than Jensen would have thought responsible enough to hold such magnificent creatures.

"As high-flying as they come, sir!"

Jensen followed as quickly as he could; the grays were clearly fresh and ready to be going. Ross's handsome but somewhat bored smile turned into a real one as Jensen sat and he could give the horses leave to step out smartly into the street.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The Dowager Countess of Graham only graced London during the height of the Season. Once the summer months approached she removed her household to Bath, to take the waters. In the autumn she journeyed to her favorite estate in the north of Scotland, for the grouse hunting season and to point out to her many grandsons that their grandfather would never have been satisfied with a measly twenty brace no matter how unseasonably chill the day had been. Winter found her at the Dower House, with a small excursion to antagonize her long-suffering daughter-in-law, the present Countess, for the Christmas season. As soon as Parliament went back into session, she opened a small family holding near Ashted and proceeded to summon all and sundry to make the half-day journey from London to pay their respects.

"At the very least, she doesn't inflict herself upon anyone year-round," Jeffrey muttered as Ferguson held his jacket for him and dealt with his cravat. Since it was his grandmother, Jeff allowed Ferguson to tie the perfectly pressed and starched linen in a slightly more intricate style than he would ordinarily affect for an afternoon call, but he drew the line at adding more than three fobs to his watch chain. The morning was still chill; the caped greatcoat and beaver hat with which Ferguson presented him were most welcome.

Jeremy arrived in a new and quite showy phaeton, driving an equally showy pair of matched chestnuts. Jeff stowed the parcel Ferguson had wrapped for him and vaulted up to join Jeremy. They set out at a smart pace; Jeff watched the chestnuts with a critical eye.

"And?" Jeremy tilted his head toward the horses, his smile saying that he was prepared to accept Jeff's congratulations.

"You'd best ease them off; it's a fair distance to Ashted and back," Jeff said, and Jeremy's face fell. He was congenitally incapable of buying good horses--his father had been an easy mark as well. When Jeff was in England, he generally advised Jeremy on such matters, but Jeremy would persist in going it alone, to what Jeff imagined must be the delight of horse traders everywhere.

Jeremy sulked about it for a while, but it was a fine spring day, and whatever Lady Graham's temper might be, her table was invariably excellent, so there was that to look forward to. They stopped once to rest the horses and refresh themselves at a small inn, and were turning into the long lane that led to the Ashted house at half-twelve, a respectable enough time to expect a luncheon.

Lady Graham received them in her morning room. From this, Jeff deduced that she was feeling sufficiently sentimental to forgo the formality of the drawing room. Fraser, the butler who traveled with her, even unbent far enough to inquire as to the state of Jeff’s house in Italy as he led Jeff and Jeremy down the hall. It was all very pleasant, but Jeff exchanged a glance with Jeremy; it was always wise to be prepared around Lady Graham, most especially when it appeared it was perfectly fine to relax.

It was late enough in the day that the morning room was shaded now, but the room still seemed to hold the warmth of the sun. Lady Graham was seated at the far edge in front of the glassed doors leading out to the terrace, a light rug cast across her legs, her ebony walking stick tapping impatiently against the honey-colored parquet floor.

"I was beginning to doubt you were going to show your face, Jeffrey," she said, by way of greeting. "Fraser! Please inform that mad creature in the kitchens that my grandson has arrived."

"Very good, my lady." Fraser inclined his head and withdrew, freeing Lady Graham to look Jeff up and down and pronounce his attire--black morning coat with white shirt, waistcoat and cravat--to be tolerably acceptable, if a trifle severe, which allowed her to compliment Jeremy on his somewhat Dandy-ish use of color.

"The young ladies like a bit of flash these days, do they not, Sophia?" Lady Graham called, and Jeff turned in some surprise to find a young lady seated in a wingback chair closer to the window. She was tiny and dark-haired, dressed rather too finely to be acting as companion to his grandmother, but even Jeff’s unsophisticated eye marked her attire as far too dowdy for her age.

"So I have heard, ma’am," Sophia answered. She set aside the book she had been holding to rise and offer Jeff her hand. "Hello, Cousin." A swift smile darted across her face as Jeff took it and searched his memories.

"Quit gaping like a cod, Jeffrey!" Lady Graham thumped her stick and then rose to lead them in to the dining room. "It’s your cousin Hubert’s daughter, Sophia."

"Of course," Jeff said. He at least remembered Hubert: an exceedingly dull sort, but good-natured enough.

"Do not look so lost, Cousin--I hardly expect you to remember me! We have an uncommon number of cousins and the last time we met I was barely in the schoolroom, and could only watch through the banisters as guests arrived for dinner."

Jeff could not even hazard a guess as to when that dinner might have been; the laughter he saw in her eyes said that she was on to him. He did recover enough to introduce Jeremy to her, happy to see that Jeremy’s fear of Jeff’s grandmother extended to a civil enough bow with no hint of censure for her lack of fashionable attire. Jeff took his grandmother’s arm and escorted her into the dining room for what she called a "light repast." Jeremy fell upon it like a starving wolf. With the wines and spirits served along with it, Jeff counted it lucky that Jeremy had not in point of fact purchased the pair of horses he’d believed himself to. At the very least, the ones he had would take advantage of Jeremy’s state only by slacking themselves to a walk, rather than taking the bit and running them all to ruin.

Conversation at luncheon covered such fascinating topics as the weather (unseasonably cool); the possibility of Mr. Keane retiring from the stage (the Dowager Countess felt it was long past time for this to happen; Jeremy still quite enjoyed the venerable thespian's performances); and the possibility of the Prince Regent summering at a location other than Bath, thus creating a frenzy among the ladies and gentlemen of the _ton_ as they hurried to find suitable lodgings (highly unlikely but amusing to contemplate).

Jeff held his tongue until his grandmother maneuvered herself a private audience with him by suggesting Cousin Sophia take Jeremy on a tour of the gardens. Very little was in bloom, but that was hardly of consequence, not when the suggestion was delivered in a tone that could decimate a Hussar regiment.

"Neatly done, ma'am," Jeff said, as he offered his grandmother his arm. "It is more fuel to Jeremy's conviction that the Duke might have dealt with Bonaparte far more quickly had you been available for consultation, but he'll go to his grave swearing that already so it's not such a large addition to your legend."

Lady Graham sniffed, but did not otherwise comment, allowing Jeff to escort her to the drawing room. The afternoon sun touched the rich, rather old-fashioned wallpaper with warmth; Jeff allowed her to settle herself on her favorite settee before he inquired if there was a special reason for requiring his attendance.

"Requiring? Really, Jeffrey, you did not use to employ such extravagant language."

"I will allow that to pass us by, ma'am," Jeff replied, and received another sniff in answer.

"We travel to London three days hence," Lady Graham announced abruptly. "Fraser has sent ahead to have the house at Grosvenor Square opened and made ready."

"'We?'" Jeff asked.

"Sophia accompanies me."

"It is still early in the Season," Jeff said. "Quite thin of company."

"All the better to settle the matter of Sophia's wardrobe, allow the girl to become accustomed to town ways."

"You mean to bring her out?" Jeff asked, too much surprised to modulate his voice.

"Yes, Jeffrey, I mean to bring her out." Lady Graham thumped her walking stick sharply on the floor in emphasis. "Why else should I care how the girl dresses herself?"

"I can think of no other reason." Jeff considered his words carefully. Other than the comments for which she was famous, his grandmother did not generally concern herself with the social lives of her children, much less her grandchildren or great-grandchildren. It was, in truth, a daunting task; she had borne the late Earl nine children, seven of whom had survived childhood and had presented her with a considerable number of grandchildren. That being said, her ladyship was not particularly blessed with an abundance of maternal sensibility, and for her to be speaking of wardrobes and town ways for someone for whom she was not directly responsible seemed to signify a rather large crack in her heretofore unassailable wall of indifference.

"Goodness knows that clunk-headed Hubert will not manage on his own." Lady Graham shook her head. "Yes, yes, there was a contract, one with the son of a local baron, all quite respectable and settled--not a glowing match by all accounts but perfectly adequate--but he did not come back from the Duke’s service. This past year and more, and nothing has been done. A fine how-do-you-do, if you ask me."

Jeff was particularly certain that no one had indeed asked, but he wisely did not offer up this opinion. "Surely one of my cousins has a daughter who is to come out soon?"

"It is beyond my comprehension how my lord Graham and I could have produced a family of such weak-spirits, but there is no one who feels able to launch the girl. She's a pretty enough thing and will have a handsome portion; it cannot be such a chore, but there you have it." Lady Graham eyed Jeff with a peculiar expression. "I am far too old for the faradiddle of a full Season. I shall do a ball, of course, and have already written to Sally Jersey for vouchers to Almack's, but I cannot conceive how I should manage the breakfasts and the routs and the musicales, and certainly not the excursions to balloon ascensions and all that seems to be involved. In my day--well, no matter. It is not my day, and so I am come to this: I must ask if you can take some time to escort your cousin to the occasional event."

"You must _ask_?" Jeff shook his head sharply. "Forgive the plain speaking, ma’am, but I cannot recall the last time you _asked_ me anything--for that alone, I’m tempted to agree, but you surely are not serious."

"I have friends who will include the girl in their parties, but it will look poorly if there is no one from the family escorting her occasionally."

"Will it look any the better if I’m the one escorting her?"

"You think far too much of yourself, Jeffrey, if you think there have not been a full score of events more interesting in the time you’ve been gone." Her voice was calm, as though she had not been present when words had been flung with too much heat; when Jeff was to take himself and his hasty temper away from the family, the better to let things settle, his uncle had said. "You are an unknown quantity now. Add to that a slight tinge of scandal, and nothing is prized more highly by a society hostess."

"How... fortunate for your plans."

"I shall take that as an acceptance." Lady Graham spoke firmly, but her countenance was a trifle softened as she added, "I confess I will find it quite amiable to see you rather more often this year."

"Sentimentality, ma’am? Should I send for the _sal volatile_?"

"Impertinent boy." Lady Graham closed her fan with a snap and rapped quite smartly at Jeff’s knuckles. "You came bearing a package. Do you mean to return to London with it?"

"Hardly, since it was brought for you, as you well know."

"Then perhaps you should present it to me, before your cousin and friend tire of the joys of the garden."

She rang for Fraser and desired him to send a footman to retrieve the parcel, which Jeff duly presented to her. It was nothing, the merest trifle: a landscape Jeff had been starting as a practice to achieve a better feel for the play of early morning light. He had thought it to be nothing but a small wooded dell, but then had realized it was the view from the morning room at Montrose Hall, in Scotland, his grandmother’s most favorite house.

"It’s from memory, and so only as accurate as that might be," Jeff said as she examined it with care. "The park has much changed as well, I am confident."

"It is of no moment." Lady Graham laid it carefully on the mantel. "It is exquisitely done, and I thank you."

For a brief moment Jeff was a small boy again, on holiday from lessons and tutors, allowed the run of his grandmother’s magnificent gardens.

"You’re most welcome, ma’am."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Collins fit himself easily into Jensen's small household and within the week had proven Danneel's trust. Jensen found himself in a series of fittings, one after the other. Given some of the more outrageous clothing he'd witnessed in his few excursions out riding, he was on his guard, not wishing to be made a fool, but Collins only advised on the cut of daytime jackets versus those for the evening, and had no objection to Jensen’s preference for the more unadorned styles.

Jensen found the sheer number of required garments ridiculous, but Collins assured him that they were commissioning the bare minimum. He allowed that Jensen’s riding breeches were acceptable and, after some persuasion on Jensen’s part involving the great love he had for his riding boots, agreed to attempt his magic on making them presentable. After a lengthy and mysterious effort involving some of the lesser champagnes left by the Black Earl, Collins pronounced the perfect black attainable and made off with the pair in question. The boots he returned were truly stupendous; Jensen was dumbfounded that such magnificence could be wrought in only a few hours. A lesser person would have appeared smug; Collins merely looked satisfied.

The invitation to Danneel’s rout arrived in due time; Collins made sure the tailor knew my lady Ross’s party was to be Jensen’s introduction to society, and then sent Jensen off to the great Weston to have his evening coat personally fitted. The shoulders fit so tightly it took an extra pair of hands to get Jensen into the coat, but Weston himself, running his hands over the fabric to check the cut and seaming, expressed a quiet satisfaction that no padding was needed at all; that Mr. Ackles was a pleasure to dress, if he might be so bold as to say.

When Jensen could not help but relay the comment, which he found to be somewhat absurd, Collins inclined his head in agreement and ventured that Jensen’s lower limbs were also quite satisfactory without the buckram padding affected by those less fortunate. As Collins was shaving Jensen at the time, Jensen forwent any true response. He did arch an eyebrow when Collins was finished, but only received a rather terse nod and the information that it was not at all uncommon for a valet such as Collins himself to persuade the less fortunate amongst the _ton_ that a little discreet padding was in order.

"You can rest assured, sir," Collins informed Jensen, in an earnest tone, "that you are not at all in that situation."

"Thank you," Jensen managed to reply gravely, and if his own tone was a trifle strangled, Collins very kindly overlooked it.

Jensen had been invited for the dinner preceding the rout; Collins took this as a personal challenge. Jensen’s waistcoat and shirt were a snowy white, his trousers perfectly pressed. His coat was, of course, the Weston and thus a work of art, and Collins spent an inordinate amount of time working on Jensen’s cravat, producing a masterpiece of folds and ties so intricate as to dazzle the eyes yet never crossing over into the absurd.

With the addition of the Black Earl's pocket watch and a new and exceedingly expensive quizzing glass, Jensen was pronounced satisfactorily attired. Collins insisted he wait an extra few minutes so as not to appear overeager, but in due time Jensen left the house in a hired hackney to begin his official quest for a wife.

During the few weeks Jensen had been in London, society had been gradually returning to the city. Danneel had timed her rout perfectly: early enough that nothing of any consequence had come before it; just late enough that the buzz of who was and was not invited to dinner prior created its own swell of anticipation. Only a dozen had been so honored, a mix of family and particularly close friends, and for all that it was a fairly exalted group, Jensen found them amiable enough.

To his surprise, he found himself escorting Danneel as she led them in to the dining room, the Marquess following closely behind with a dowager in deep purple and ostrich plumes.

"There," Danneel murmured as Jensen walked her to her seat. "This shall have the news of your arrival flying before you."

The lady next to whom Jensen was seated, an elderly dowager of some connection to Ross’s family--Jensen did not catch the precise relationship--barely waited past a polite exchange of greetings to tell him that she had not needed the introduction to know he was one of the Black Earl's get.

"Should have known you anywhere," she confided. "Very much like him, especially about the eyes."

Jensen nodded as civilly as possible; fortunately, she did not actually require him to answer to be satisfied that he was as interested in the conversation as she.

"I was still in the schoolroom then, of course--" For all her age, her eyes snapped and sparkled at him, most definitely signaling the statement as the egregious lie that it was, "but he was quite the scandal. Young ladies would have the vapours if he so much as bowed to them. My sister Maria was made of sterner stuff, though--he once took snuff off the inside of her wrist. It was quite wicked of her. I thought dear Papa might have an apoplexy."

Jensen was used to hearing all manner of stories about his grandfather, but few of them had ever been told with such affectionate amusement. He could not help but smile at his dining partner.

"And did your sister come to a wicked end?" It was, perhaps, a trifle forward of him to ask, but he judged it to be acceptable since she had offered him the reminiscence.

"Unless I’m mistaken, you shall have the chance to judge for yourself," she answered. "She accompanies a great-granddaughter this evening." She paused to take the tiniest morsel of the beef that had been placed in front of her before eying Jensen again with a speculative gleam. "Now, tell me again how you are so acquainted with our dear hostess as to have escorted her to dinner?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The streets outside Berkeley Square were thronged with carriages. One by one, they rolled along the park and stopped to deliver their passengers to their evening’s entertainment. That Jeff found this less tedious than usual was due entirely to watching his grandmother try to contain her own tedium and answer Sophia’s questions without snapping.

"Should I affect ennui, Cousin?" Sophia asked, after a particularly excited reaction to the news that the Duke of York was expected to attend the rout as well. Ross’s late father had been one of the royal circle, and Jeff supposed the Duke was paying his respects in attending this first party of the newly married couple. It went without saying that His Grace also had an eye for a pretty figure and the new Marchioness would not have escaped his notice. Nothing untoward, of course, but Jeff did not suppose the Duke graced any such party without a little extra encouragement.

"Not at all," Jeff answered.

"I wouldn’t want to be thought unsophisticated, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at pretending." She smiled at Jeff. "I hadn’t thought I’d be at a party with a member of the royal family so soon."

"I shouldn’t like to lower your spirits, my dear," said Lady Graham. "But the Duke of York... does not cut a very inspiring figure."

Jeff didn’t smile, precisely, but there was no getting round the fact that His Grace did, in fact, resemble his father to a prodigious degree... which was not a good thing, not when the less discreet members of Parliament referred to His Majesty as Farmer George.

"I promise not to be lowered." Sophia smiled mischievously, and Jeff thought it was rather a good thing that she was dark. As lovely as she was in her yellow gown, worn over a slip of paler lemon, her black curls threaded through with a ribbon of the same lemon satin, His Grace was known to favor the fair.

They had, at last, reached the front of Number 10, and the landau lurched to a halt. Footmen wearing the Ross livery opened the door, and Jeff handed his cousin and grandmother out onto the red carpet that covered the front entryway.

"Shall we?" It was, for Lady Graham, an inquiry, but to any who heard it, it was less that and more a command.

"By all means." Jeff took her arm. She was resplendent in black velvet and diamonds, and did not subscribe to the custom of covering her own whitened hair with false curls. If her step was slowed by age, her posture was still upright and proud, her carriage graceful. Sophia followed closely behind as they mounted the steps and entered the grand hall. Lady Ross, stunning in moss green watered silk and emeralds, welcomed them and directed them to the various entertainments planned for the evening. There were whist and faro and other games of cards in the morning room, a harp and pianoforte in the drawing room, and several new pieces of art scattered throughout. A midnight supper was planned, as well as light refreshments available throughout the evening.

"Several of our young ladies will perform a song or two during the evening," Lady Ross said. "Perhaps Miss Bush should like to join them?"

"Oh," Sophia said quickly. "That is," she dropped a small curtsy and blushed a bit, "I thank you for asking, but I have not sung in public in... a very long while."

"Perhaps another time," Lady Ross suggested graciously, and their little party moved off. Lady Graham settled herself on a couch that had been placed against the far wall in the drawing room, from which she had a clear view of all and sundry. Jeff was sent off to procure a glass of orgeat for her refreshment, and some iced lemonade for Sophia; in the very little time it took to accomplish this, the parade of acquaintances, both friend and foe, had begun to make its way to her. As Jeff delivered the orange- and almond-scented brandy in its tiny crystal glass, Lady Graham said, "Well, if it isn't my sister Oriana."

Jeff turned to greet his great-aunt, and unexpectedly found himself face-to-face with the expressive green eyes that belonged to the old friend of Lady Ross.

"Maria," Great-Aunt Oriana said. "Do look who I found seated next to me at dinner."

"An Ackles," Lady Graham said, in her blunt way. "How very clever of you, Oriana."

"I quite thought so." Lady Oriana turned her gaze upon Jeff, pronouncing, "You are looking quite devilishly handsome these days, Jeffrey. Very saturnine with all the black. I should imagine the _on-dits_ will be buzzing with the news that you are back."

Her opinion thus offered, introductions were performed all around. Jeff found it quite interesting that those cool eyes seemed taken aback when Jeff acknowledged that they'd already met. Again, it was only a flicker, and then Mr. Ackles was bowing over Lady Graham's hand.

"I am given to understand that you and my grandfather set tongues to wagging," he said. "A matter of some snuff, I believe?"

"Oriana has been telling tales, has she?" Lady Graham eyed her sister with some resignation. "Anthony was quite the hellion. Very exciting to those of us who merely observed; I would imagine it was quite different to those beholden to him."

Ackles inclined his head graciously, but did not otherwise reply. Jeff fancied he saw the briefest look of indulgence on his grandmother's face, but it was there and gone before he could refine upon it.

"Now, then," Lady Graham said, briskly. "I should like the opportunity to visit with my sister. You young people should go amuse yourselves with whatever our hostess has set forth for your entertainment tonight."

Correctly interpreting the look his grandmother cast him, Jeff allowed Mr. Ackles to offer his arm to Sophia, who smiled quite unselfconsciously and allowed him to lead her off to see how the new Lady Ross had transformed the music room into a veritable garden.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Miss Bush proved to be an entertaining companion, confessing quite early in their conversation that she had not been in London above a week and was quite overwhelmed with all that there was to see and do.

"My papa does not entertain," she explained. "Nor travel. We live a very quiet country life, which I enjoy, but it is quite interesting to have so very many entertainments. I do not think I would like to live here all the time, precisely, but I am persuaded it will be very amusing for the next months."

They paused in front of a magnificent portrait of Danneel, commissioned of Sir Thomas Lawrence by Lord Ross to commemorate the occasion of their marriage. It had set a new fashion, and Jensen could admire the likeness, but he was not sure he liked it. Danneel was lovely, as always, but Jensen could not find more than a hint of the sparkle and wit of the woman he knew in the figure posed among the Grecian ruins.

They continued their wanderings through the house, and Jensen could not help but think the portrait to be a symbol of the rest of the house: beautifully decorated, but revealing little of his friend. The morning room was, as promised, quite magnificent with its flowers and greenery, and there, at least, Jensen could recognize Danneel. The gardens at Harris Grange were always her first love.

"Should you like to sit in on a rubber or two of whist?" Jensen inquired. There were also games of faro in progress, but he felt it would be rather familiar of him to assume she might prefer that game, even though her cousin was seated at one of the tables.

Miss Bush eyed the somewhat full tables in the morning room, but before she could answer, a footman announced that there would be music beginning in the drawing room shortly.

"Would you mind if we listened?" Miss Bush asked. "Music is my especial passion."

"Not at all," Jensen answered. "It is one of mine, as well."

Her smile said that she was not entirely sure that Jensen was being more truthful than polite, but once they made their way to the drawing room and Jensen became quite absorbed in the performances, she seemed to accept his interest as genuine. Several of the young ladies were talented indeed, while others were there only at the strong urgings of their forceful mamas.

"It is so difficult," Miss Bush murmured to Jensen as a particularly mortified girl presented a rather uninspired rendition of a classic on the pianoforte. Her applause was genuine and she smiled warmly at the girl. Jensen found her sensibility to be very amicable. "I cannot help but want to show them how it is not so difficult, but of course that would be impossible."

"Do you play?" Jensen asked. He thought it to be an unexceptional question, but Miss Bush only shook her head and quite soon after spied Lady Graham waving to her. She excused herself quickly, though she did accept Jensen’s offer to escort her to supper later. Jensen thought he could perhaps return to the morning room for a few hands of faro, but before he could make his way out of the room another young lady took her place at the harp. It would have been inexcusably rude to leave before she was finished, so Jensen settled himself back into the small gilt chair. The space next to him was quickly filled by a young man, tall and dressed with a careless hand that would have caused Collins physical pain had he seen it. It didn’t seem to bother the gentleman in question, as he quite clearly had nothing in his mind that was not the harpist.

"Is she not exquisite?" he murmured to Jensen, and Jensen could not help smiling in amusement. The young lady’s playing was certainly adequate--far from the worst they had heard during the evening--but Jensen did not think it was her way with a harp that was provoking such fits of transport. He made agreeable noises, however; there was something refreshing in the honest admiration in his neighbor’s eyes. "She has promised to step down to supper with me," the young man confided at the end of the next piece. "I am too lucky this evening."

Jensen smothered a grin at the blissful look that accompanied the confidence. "Perhaps you should take your luck to the faro tables."

"Oh, I shall, but it would take more than luck to help me there," his companion said with a smile of his own. "I have nothing of any skill at the gaming tables, no matter which I might try."

Danneel came up to them then, and shook her head at the sad state of affairs when they confessed they had not been introduced as yet. She did the honors herself, and Jensen’s companion turned out to be Captain Sir Jared Padalecki, late of the 3rd Hussars.

"Miss Cortese is waiting for you, sir." Danneel hid her amusement at his eager grin and hasty bow quite well, but Jensen knew it from days of old. It was strangely good to see it still came out to play even here amid the elegant life Danneel now inhabited. As the young captain rushed off, Danneel turned to Jensen, remarking, "She is quite as taken as he is; perhaps they will have a happy result."

Her tone was strange, almost wistful, but before Jensen could press further, Baines was murmuring discreetly in Danneel’s ear and she was turning away to find Lord Ross as Baines announced that the supper buffet was served. Ross made a pretty show of escorting his wife to to the room, with a bow and an intimate smile. Danneel was glowing as she led them into the buffet, so perhaps Jensen had been mistaken about her tone earlier.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Whatever one might say about Lady Graham, she enjoyed her dining. Jeff brought her a plate of lobster patties and rout-cakes, refreshed her glass of orgeat, and was promptly thanked and dismissed.

"Sophia has herself well taken care of." Lady Graham waved toward where Sophia sat chatting and smiling with Mr. Ackles. "Do go amuse yourself, Jeffrey."

Since Ross himself was acting as banker at the faro table, Jeff was pleasantly occupied for a time. He stepped away to hand his grandmother and cousin into their landau when they took their leave not long after one in the morning, but returned for a few more rounds as the rout slowly wound down. He ended the evening at the table with Ross, a young Hussar Captain he vaguely recalled having been introduced to in Vienna in the the months before Napoleon had escaped, and the enigmatic Mr. Ackles. The young captain--Padalecki, Jeff remembered, the son of a Polish count and an English viscount’s daughter--had the devil's own luck at the table, winning hands he had no business contending for, but his cheerful laugh and amiable disposition kept him from being tedious about it. Mr. Ackles played with a shrewd head and not inconsiderable skill, wagering with just enough of an edge that Jeff knew he was finishing the evening with a handsome portion of the bank. Jeff found it fascinating to watch.

It was, in most respects, a not disagreeable evening for all that he had played by the rules of the _ton_. He had been followed by a small wave of whispers behind fans, but that was nothing remarkable in and of itself, and it would appear his grandmother had been correct in her assessment of his relative notoriety. The following day he was promised to pay a call at Gentleman Jackson's with Jeremy; he should by all rights end his evening and gain at least a few hours of rest before he stepped into the ring, but there was an itch under his skin, and so he took himself off to see how accommodating Mary-Louise might be this evening.


	2. Chapter 2

It was gone past three before Jensen found himself abed following Danneel’s rout, but he was back awake by ten so that he might breakfast lightly and take a turn about the park before beginning the day's social obligations. To Jensen's surprise, Collins did not object to Jensen paying calls in riding dress; when Jensen hesitated, Collins informed him gravely that he was not going to ever be seen as a Pink of the _ton_ and might therefore feel free to set himself apart as one who did not feel the need to subscribe strictly to the vagaries of fashion. Upon further reflection, Jensen felt that his valet's unanticipated casualness might also be related to the pride he took in the shine imparted to Jensen's riding boots, a notion that was not discredited by the many envious looks they received.

Jensen was able to pay short calls on several of the less insipid young ladies he’d met the previous evening. He left his card with the footmen at the homes of several others, and ended his social obligations at Lady Graham’s house for a less dutiful and more enjoyable few minutes with Miss Bush. After taking his leave he made his way back to the park; it was an unfashionable hour, and no one of any consequence could be expected there, but not long after he’d let his gelding break into a spirited trot, he was hailed by a group coming up quickly from the other way. He recognized the young Hussar captain and reined in.

"Excellent timing, sir." The horse Captain Padalecki was riding was young and skittish, a blood-chestnut with beautiful lines. Jensen was not surprised to see how easily Padalecki handled him; the 3rd Hussars had seen ferocious action in the Peninsular Wars, most especially in the brutal skirmishes at Salamanca and Vittoria. A captain of their post, especially one who had risen to that rank at seemingly so young an age, would necessarily live in the saddle. "We are off to Gentleman Jackson’s to take in a lesson or two. If you’ve no other call upon your time, we should be pleased with your company."

As Jensen did not, in fact, have plans, he greeted this invitation with enthusiasm and was immediately swept up into the group riding out to Bond Street and the famous pugilist’s boxing academy. Joshua would be envious; he had made a visit or two during previous trips to the city, but had never had the time to stand amid the hustle, the air all but vibrating with the energy of the retired champion. As the other young men made arrangements for lessons, Jensen found himself distracted by one already in progress.

Jackson himself was in the ring, his hands swathed in the mufflers he’d made popular so that he could provide instruction to his high-born patrons without causing serious injury. With him was just such a patron; Jensen was fascinated to realize that he knew the gentleman in question--Morgan, Miss Bush’s cousin. Even more intriguing was the ease with which he moved about the ring, and the familiar way Jackson treated him. It was less a lesson and more a match between equals.

Jensen had of course heard of the easy camaraderie Jackson had with such notable figures as Lord Byron and even members of the royal family, he had not expected to witness it with someone he himself was acquainted with, howsoever slightly that might be. He watched, absorbed, as Morgan near danced across the ring, gliding easily, responding to the defensive moves Jackson called to him as quickly as the champion himself.

"It’s enough to make a grown man weep," Captain Padalecki said, coming up quietly beside Jensen and following his eyes. "By all accounts, Morgan has only the barest minimum of time with Jackson, yet he takes to it as though he spent every free moment here."

"Refresher course," said another member of the group--Mr. Murray, Jensen believed it was. "They say he has ample opportunity to put what he learns here to practice out in the world."

"They?" Padalecki asked.

"You know," Murray answered. "Word from the ones in the know, that sort of thing."

"We met in Vienna last year," Padalecki said, with a quelling expression that made Jensen find him quite likeable. Gossip had never been a particular passion of Jensen’s either. "In and around the conferences. He had some connection, but the kind no one speaks to."

"Quite possibly, my boy," Murray answered, completely unfazed by the set-down. "He never sticks long in any one place, they say, though I'm sure I wouldn't know why he might care about such things as were happening in Vienna." The captain sighed again and Murray shrugged. "Just know what they say: wild hellion who they hustled off to the Continent after a duel, close to twenty years ago. Doesn't give a damn for England or the rest of his family; only comes back when the dowager commands it. Graham himself doesn’t have anything to say about it, even if he don’t much like it."

Jensen listened absently, his attention still on Morgan as he finished sparring with Jackson and climbed down out of the ring to meet up with his friend, Lord Merton. He glanced over toward the small assembly of young men, his expression unreadable; Jensen felt as if the dark, intense gaze lingered for a brief moment as it passed over him, but that was in all probability nothing but a trick of the light.

"Have you interest in lessons?" Padalecki broke into Jensen’s reverie, though Jensen didn’t think the young captain had noticed anything amiss. "I would be happy to share a time with you."

Jensen thought briefly about the account books in the estate office, their lines crossed heavily with red ink. Young men of the _ton_ were not supposed to concern themselves with such thoughts, but they perhaps had no care for a brother’s face grown old before its time. It was important not to appear to wracked for money, though, Jensen thought. And there were his winnings from the previous night--they could defray at least a portion of the costs without the need to apply to Joshua for more funds.

"My time is not strictly my own," Jensen said. "I am promised to execute some commissions on my brother’s behalf, but a chance for a lesson with the champion should not be missed. Thank you."

As soon as the course of lessons was inked into the academy’s schedule, Jensen quickly sought to change the topic before a suggestion for additional time could be made.

"And how is Miss Cortese this day?"

"She is quite well, thank you," Captain Padalecki answered promptly, his smile now beaming. "She has promised to ride with me this afternoon, and might even accompany me to a balloon ascension Friday next. And she attends the assembly this Wednesday at Almack’s; I hope to stand up with her at least once. If fortune favors me, I’ll have the opportunity to waltz with her."

Jensen could not help but smile at the energy and enthusiasm in his new acquaintance’s voice; it swept them out the door and back onto their horses and all the way to Hyde Park.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"Do forgive my tardiness, Cousin!" Sophia ran lightly down the front steps of Lady Graham’s townhouse. "Lord Merton came to call earlier this week and thought my ribbons were insipid, and of course we have now gone through my entire wardrobe, rooting out the offending articles. It is very amusing, but I have been late to everything these past three days while Miss Beacham puts finishing touches on me."

Jeff held the horses while Jackson, the great-nephew of the stablemaster at Lady Graham’s estate, handed Sophia up to sit beside him in the curricle he had recently determined was a necessary purchase. He had no desire to be driven about in Lady Graham’s landaulet, not if he could help matters along, and as Jeremy was fond of reminding him, he was possessed of a relatively handsome fortune no matter how little attention he paid it. Sophia wore a fawn-colored dress with cherry ribbons that matched the ostrich feather in her hat, all very cheerful and charming, quite appropriate for Lady Cranfield’s al fresco party in Chiswick.

"You’re here now--"

"And very much not insipid, I should hope?"

"I’ll leave that pronouncement to Jeremy; you should know by now that I have not the slightest inclination toward good taste." Jeff took the horses out at a trot; his cousin did not much care for a swift passage through the streets of London, vastly preferring a quiet, calm ride. "Though I’m sure that none of your admirers have as lofty of standards as he, and would not mind if your ribbons were not up to snuff."

Sophia blushed a little at the mention of admirers, but Jeff knew that Lady Graham’s scheme to marry the girl off was well-launched; according to Fraser, who seemed to be much enjoying the chance to preside over a Season once more, they received no fewer than a half-dozen callers every day.

"Well, I am sure that some of them would be mortified to be seen with someone Lord Merton did not think acceptable." Sophia paused for a moment. "They are welcome to their opinions of course, but I find I cannot think much of them."

"Well spoken, Cousin," Jeff said. He was glad to see the girl had a layer of common sense and was not having her head turned by the sudden rush of attention. "And my grandmother? What does she say of all this?"

"Oh, I believe she has her own plans," Sophia said calmly. She smiled as Jeff forgot himself long enough to stare at her, not paying attention to the horses until she began to look a trifle uneasy. "She does that, you know."

"I had been given to understand that, yes," Jeff managed to say. His tone was strangled, but whether it was due to Sophia having made such an astute observation or her utter indifference to it, he could not say. Sophia kindly paid him no mind.

"She asks you to accompany me because she wishes us to make a match," Sophia continued, ending with a squeak as Jeff’s astonishment overtook him completely and he dropped his hands long enough for his bays to take the notion that they had the lead. They did not bolt, but it took him some minutes to bring them back under control.

"My apologies," he offered, slowing the carriage to a walk and allowing Sophia to regain her equilibrium.

"Oh, no," Sophia said breathlessly. "It was quite my fault. I should not have sprung that upon you." Her eyes were serious as she took his measure. "I hope you will not take offense if I am frank and tell you I do not think we should suit each other."

"Not at all," Jeff managed to answer, not precisely sure how he was being out-maneuvered by a slip of a girl.

"Oh," Sophia said with what could only be a sigh of relief. Jeff was not entirely sure that he should not feel a bit insulted. "I did not _think_ you could be harboring feelings for me, but you are very kind and I would not wish to cause you distress."

"You may rest assured you have not," Jeff answered, as firmly as he was capable.

"It is not that I think you too old, you understand." Sophia was very earnest. "It is that you are very attached to your travels and your house in Italy, which I am sure is very beautiful, but I am quite content here."

"Of course," Jeff answered. He wondered if Lady Cranfield might possibly be serving something stronger than a lemonade, but did not think it likely.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Lady Cranfield’s gardens were quite lovely, to be sure, and Jensen was gratified to have been invited, but all in all, it was nothing more than another occasion for Collins to garb him suitably and for him to make proper, painstaking conversation with the young ladies Danneel had identified as meeting his needs. He was not bored, precisely, but he was more relieved to spot Captain Padalecki’s tall form amid the flowers and shrubbery than he should be. Jared, of course, was attending to Miss Cortese’s every need, but that young lady was wise enough not to place so many demands on his time that he could not talk briefly with Jensen regarding a scheme he claimed to be hatching. Since an earlier plan had involved such niceties as Jared jumping his pretty chestnut gelding over a fully set table without so much as disturbing the flower arrangement upon the center, and another had Mr. Murray walking the length of Piccadilly on stilts, Jensen merely arched an eyebrow and asked if he should need to settle his affairs before joining the fray.

"Nothing so fun, I promise." Jared grinned irrepressibly. "I have word that Weatherly is done in and must sell off his cattle before he takes a turn in the country. I’ve an eye toward his blacks for my phaeton."

Jensen managed a credible-enough nod and, thanks to Miss Cortese and the distractions she provided, he did not think Jared noticed anything amiss, but he could not help the chill he felt at the thought of being forced to sell possessions so that everyone should know. It was for that very reason that he had yet to sell the necklet and armband Margaret had sent him, even though it was quite common for older pieces handed down to be reset or sold if the lady in question did not find them fashionable. He resolved to visit Kripke at his earliest convenience and pay closer attention to the investments, no matter the distractions town life was offering.

As Jared moved off, Jensen espied Miss Bush and her cousin, Mr. Morgan, and waited for them to make their way along the neatly raked path of gravel. While he could not say that he was as enamored of Miss Bush as Jared was of Miss Cortese, he did find her company a fair length more entertaining than that of any of the other young ladies of his recent acquaintance. She smiled as she caught sight of him. While he did not think her feelings were any stronger than his, she appeared to hold him in some regard and fondness. She touched her cousin on the arm, nodding toward Jensen, and they turned to join him.

Jensen had just made his bows when another young lady and her formidable mama approached: Miss Phillip, if Jensen remembered correctly. The two young ladies moved off to exchange greetings and confidences. Lady Phillip hesitated long enough that it was remarkable, and then somewhat stiffly invited Jensen and Mr. Morgan to accompany them, her tone such that one might infer she fully expected the Hounds of Hell to follow in their path.

"Mr. Ackles and I were about to go inspect Lord Cranfield’s new Grecian temple," Morgan answered politely, though Jensen saw the tension in his shoulders and jaw.

"Yes, of course." Lady Phillip did not bother to hide her relief and sailed off after the young ladies, leaving Jensen standing with Mr. Morgan on the gravel path.

"My apologies," Morgan said, with a sigh. "My reputation precedes me; I understand if you have a prior engagement."

After a silence that was more than a trifle awkward--he’d met the man once, over a faro table; hardly a sound foundation for … whatever had just happened--Jensen heard himself offering, blandly, "I have heard that the temple is unequalled; it would be a shame to miss it."

Morgan stared as though Jensen had just produced a trained monkey from under his coat. To be sure, Jensen was not precisely certain himself why he had not taken the opportunity Morgan had offered to extricate himself. It was, he supposed, merely that he was intrigued by the rumors that swirled about the other man. Or possibly that he had not summarily dismissed Jensen during their first, inauspicious meeting in the Park. Then again, it could simply have been that Jensen disliked airs and pretensions, and while Morgan had neither, Lady Phillip’s actions were ridiculously overblown for a duchess, never mind the wife of a newly made and quite minor baronet.

It did not matter, Jensen decided. He was happy enough to further his acquaintance with the enigmatic Mr. Morgan for whatever reason. He arched an eyebrow, waiting for a reply. Morgan recollected himself, and, when Jensen made no move to run off, swept his arm in the general direction of the folly.

"After you," he said gravely, but Jensen saw how his mouth quirked in a half-smile. That was another mark in his favor, Jensen decided. Most people did not bother to look past the bland front Jensen liked to present; Morgan quite clearly saw through to everything Jensen hid behind it. Saw it and did not disapprove, which was exceedingly rare, in Jensen’s experience.

The particular corner of the gardens dedicated to Lord Cranfield’s passion for all things Grecian beheld a commanding view of the river--fortunately, as it afforded something pleasing to gaze upon when the full horror of the artfully aged ruins proved too much.

"It is most certainly unequalled," Jensen murmured after the two of them had spent a some five minutes circling the small, round pavilion without noting so much as a single detail that either could identify as properly authentic.

"Let us hope," Morgan said. "If there were more, I could not in good conscience argue against Zeus striking down the nation."

By mutual, though unspoken, agreement, they turned to leave, stepping aside as another small group made its way to examine the travesty, led by a pompous young lordling whom Jensen heard expounding on the "exquisite use of shape and form" he perceived in the marble columns.

"One wonders if he ever allowed his dons’ words to pass his ears," Morgan murmured as they moved around a curve in the path. He smiled unexpectedly. "Not that I ever did, but seeing the actual objects in front of me did manage to penetrate even the fog left by vast quantities of Greek spirits."

"The ruins of Athens?" Jensen asked, somewhat pleased that he did not sound quite as eager as he felt. It was difficult given how many hours he’d pored over the great atlas in the library at Richardson Hall as a child.

"The Parthenon," Morgan confirmed. "It’s quite magnificent, but I have a particular fondness for the temple at Delphi." He walked quietly for a few moments, than added, "Now that Napoleon is indeed finished, there might be opportunity to see it again."

"It would seem possible," Jensen said, attempting to mask his ardent longing to see those sights--and so many more. The middle of an al fresco luncheon party in Chiswick was hardly the place to reveal the inadequacies of his education or the sense of duty that kept him so firmly anchored to an estate that held family and familiarity but not much else. He was not entirely successful, but it seemed Morgan appreciated his interest.

"And not only Greece," Morgan mused, as though the thought was only now occurring to him. "I confess I am more taken with sculpture than ruins, but Rome has both, and Paris will be possible now, too."

"You have a home in Italy, Miss Bush says," Jensen said, trying to disguise the unbridled envy that coursed through his veins at the thought. "It sounds an excellent base."

"I suppose it would be," Morgan said. "I have not occupied it long enough to test its convenience for travel, but as it’s in the northern part of the country it is not terribly out of the way for the rest of the continent."

They had reached the front of the gardens by this time, and Jensen spied Danneel in conference with the grooms, which allowed him to excuse himself civilly before he gave away too much of his covetousness. Gentlemen were, of course, encouraged to make a Grand Tour of the Continent, but the fashionable enthusiasm was to be saved for the more licentious of the sights. Only prosy bores were expected to enjoy ancient ruins.

Danneel had driven them out to the luncheon in her extremely fashionable and correspondingly expensive phaeton. It was a high-perch model, one that turned heads no matter who was driving it. Add in a spectacular pair of greys--second only to the pair Ross drove himself--and Danneel at the reins, and it was a sight not to be missed.

A lesser man would have objected to being driven by a lady, or at least insisted on putting a critical eye about her form, but Jensen had grown up watching Danneel drive, and as competent a whip as he was himself, he was perfectly content to allow her to put her team through their paces. He did, however, warn that he would extract a hideous revenge should she overturn them, as she had been known to do on occasion when her eye for speed was done in by an unexpected irregularity in the roadway.

"I should not be such an idiot in front of the whole town," Danneel informed him archly. "You may take your leisure; it is an excellent day for driving and I do not intend to ruin it by overreaching. Not that my beauties could not put every other pair here to shame," she added.

"They are splendid," Jensen agreed. "Where did you have them from?" He purposefully did not ask their cost, as the number would only depress him.

"They are out of Ross’s pair," Danneel said. "Can you not tell? They are as perfect as anything, just as everything he owns is. He has another pair that he uses with his own when he desires a coach and four, but these two had too strong a head for that combination."

She took a curve in the road at a spanking pace, casting a glace sidelong at Jensen to gauge his reaction. As the phaeton was perfectly balanced, and Danneel had driven him through worse turns on worse roads with a far less nuanced vehicle under them, Jensen had not seen the need to move from the lazy slouch he had been enjoying. He did, however, arch an eyebrow in her direction.

"Oh, famous," Danneel said, laughing. "You are such a much better choice to be my cicisbeo-in-chief than any of the other dullards the on-dits want for the role."

" _I_ am your chief admirer?" That did bring Jensen out of his slouch, and Danneel laughed anew. "I?"

"Well, to be sure, they have not heard one of your thundering scolds--and they do not need to; pray do not look for opportunities, Jensen!" Danneel fell silent as she passed a slower-moving barouche, and Jensen nodded politely to the occupants, several ladies who were slightly familiar. "Do not mind it a bit--they will say the same about anyone who dances with me twice in the same evening, and I am far more entertained by you than anyone else. You would think they might work out that had I been diverted by any of the likely choices I might have married them instead of Ross, but that is not the case."

Jensen did not even have to speak to express how distasteful he found the entire topic.

"Don’t frown so, Jen," Danneel cajoled. "Every young wife has her court; to not have one is to be seen odd. In truth, your arrival has actually calmed the gossips. I had no clear favorite before; it drove them all mad. But now you are here and they can all whisper behind their fans and move on to the next topic."

Though Jensen knew she spoke the truth--he could not think of a young woman, new-married or not who did not have her favorites clustered about her at every gathering, he still could not like it.

"I have it from Ross himself," Danneel snapped. "It is not good _ton_ to be seen hanging about one another incessantly; I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." Jensen liked that statement even less, but Danneel refused further discussion on the subject, and the rest of the trip was accomplished in a silence that was as strained as it had ever been between them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Once he safely returned his cousin to Lady Graham’s care, Jeff had no plans other than an escape to White’s for dinner with Jeremy, with vague intentions of throwing the dice at Watier’s or, more likely, finishing out the night with Mary-Louise. He did not feel equal to addressing the entire issue of a match between Sophia and himself; not with the added unease from encountering Lady Phillip and her daughter.

His grandmother had other intentions, of course, and nonplussed, Jeff stared at the sight of Fraser descending the front steps of the townhouse at a smart pace, chasing after Jeff for all that he retained his composure. Jeff toyed with the thought of leaving regardless, but as much as this assumption that he was at Lady Graham’s beck and call galled him, he couldn’t lay the blame at Fraser’s feet, and there was no purpose served by sending him back empty-handed.

"Take them round the square once or twice if they get restless," Jeff said, descending from the curricle and leaving the horses in the more-than-capable hands of his groom. "I won’t be long," he added, his voice hardening.

Fraser led him up the steps and into the house, saying, "My lady is receiving in the drawing room, sir."

"Oh, so we’re to be formal today," Jeff answered. "Send in a decanter of the good brandy."

"Very good, sir," Fraser answered, as if it were not the height of familiarity for Jeff to be giving orders. He announced Jeff with his usual aplomb and took himself off. Silence descended upon the room, Jeff bowing over his grandmother’s hand with punctilious care but otherwise not greeting her.

"So kind of you to join me," Lady Graham said, finally, and Jeff thought it might be the first time he’d ever been able to outwait her.

"I could hardly refuse the summons," Jeff answered. "Not without causing a scene."

"There was a time when that would not have mattered to you."

"There was a time when you would have applauded my restraint," Jeff bit out, but before he could well and truly lose his tenuous grasp upon his temper, Fraser returned, carrying a silver tray with decanters of brandy and water and several heavy glass snifters. He deposited his burden on the sideboard, pouring Jeff a glass before once again removing himself silently from the room. He was not, Jeff was happy to note, at all abstemious with the liquor. Jeff took a breath and then, leaning against the mantel, turned to face the dragon.

"Lord knows I am well used to your arranging the family’s life to suit you, but this entire business with Sophia is..." He drank deeply from the glass--Fraser had done him the courtesy of serving up a vintage that fair raised his eyebrows--and continued, "Dragging the girl out of the country and sending her off in my escort is a new landmark even for you, ma’am."

"Don’t be tiresome, Jeffrey," Lady Graham sniffed, but with only a small portion of her usual acerbity. "The girl came to me, asked me for help in finding a husband. Can you blame her--shut off down in Kent with no one but Hubert for company? She’s a good girl, looking after her father, but the living there passes to some ridiculous popinjay at Hubert’s death. He’s already been nosing around, making suggestions that it would be providential for them to marry so that she should not lose her home. Sophia is quite intelligent enough to know there are better alternatives than _that_."

Jeff nodded, but as that only answered half the issue, did not say anything further. After a few moments, Lady Graham sighed. "Of course I should like it if you formed a connection. Why should I not like something that would bring you home?"

"I have a home, ma’am," Jeff said, more gently than he would have thought possible given all the heated words that had been flung--in both directions--over the years. "It is a villa in the hills, with a view of the lake and more sun than seems possible."

"That is your pride, Jeffrey. Your pride and your stubbornness." Her voice was steady, unflinching, but her eyes softened when she looked at him. "Your home waits for you here."

"A decade past, I would have wanted to agree with you," Jeff said. A decade past he would have welcomed those words with an eagerness that seemed to be nothing now but a distant echo. "My life has moved in different directions since--"

"Bonaparte is finished," she snapped. "You were never obligated to take on that burden in the first place, but what’s done is done." When Jeff boggled at her, she added, "Do not gape at me, boy. Did you think I would not hear of your work? I have known the truth these last five years. For all the respect Castlereagh inspires in the halls of the Foreign Offices, it does not follow him into my drawing room."

"How remiss of me not to have understood that fact," Jeff said dryly, with a small bow.

"I have yet to determine how it all began, but I do know that it is long past time for you to stop these games and come home." For the first time in Jeff’s memory, she sounded her age, her voice thin and whispery.

"With the greatest of respect, I find I cannot agree with you, ma’am," Jeff said quietly. He finished his brandy and, sketching a quick bow, let himself out the front door as quietly as he could. He would follow his original plan: dinner at the club, and then the rest of the evening lost in the cards and dice.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jensen had no plans for the night; upon receiving a note from Jared inviting him to join their party for dinner and an hour or two of gaming, he changed quickly and set out for White’s. It was a pleasant-enough evening to make his way to St. James Street on foot, foregoing the always-questionable interior of a hired coach. Dinner was a companionable affair; Jared had a wide circle of acquaintances, and somewhat to Jensen’s surprise he himself had passed enough time in society to be able to make his bows to a respectable number of the gentlemen who frequented the wood-paneled rooms. As they lingered over the excellent port poured by the club, Jared became embroiled in an intense, if friendly, debate that ended with him laughingly swearing to prove the Viscount Morecomb wrong.

The book was brought out and a wager was entered, that Sir Jared, late of the 3rd Hussars, could not ride the length of the Thames to the coast and back within the space of sunrise until White’s itself stopped serving dinner. To prove that he truly did make the entire journey--Jensen saw Jared’s eyes narrow at the implied slight to his honor--arrangements would be made for him to retrieve a package from the innkeeper at Ship’s Inn in the village of Clacton, the contents of which would be known only to the viscount, but recorded and kept at White’s. Upon completing his journey, the package would be opened and the contents verified.

"Five thousand pounds," Jared said amiably, as if he had not just wagered a year’s income. The viscount agreed and the amount was duly inscribed; it was not the largest sum ever set forth at White’s, not by a long draw, and for far less substantial terms. As news of the bet filtered through the club, more gentlemen appeared to add their own lines to the book.

"Solid bit of flash," Mr. Murray murmured to Jensen. "You’ll not find an easier way to turn a handsome profit." He himself put a line down for a thousand pounds.

"It’s a long way to the coast and back," Jensen answered. "Easy to throw a shoe, strain a foreleg. Not to mention the smugglers running in and around there."

"You don’t know my Diablo," Jared said, laughing. "Old Soult chased us halfway across the Peninsula and back and he still had the spirit to take a groom’s finger off at the knuckle just for getting too close."

Jensen watched carefully as Jared met bet after bet--there was nothing of self-aggrandizement or boastful insincerity in Jared’s face, no unease or doubt. Nothing was ever certain, of course, but when it came time Jensen calmly laid down his own line, five hundred pounds, and did not flinch. It was one of the lesser bets, to be sure, but it was still money Jensen did not possess. He felt it a reasonable risk, though he wondered if the Black Earl had felt the same way in all of his ruinous wagers.

"You won’t regret it." Jared clapped him on the back and they started out of the club. There was a small delay stemming from a disagreement over which gaming hell to move on to; while the matter was being debated, Lord Ross came up the steps, as effortlessly stylish as always.

"Mr. Ackles," he said with a small smile. Jensen bowed slightly, and found himself wondering idly if Ross had some condition that made it painful to express happiness. "I understand from my wife that conditions were well-nigh perfect for driving this afternoon."

"She did seem to enjoy putting the team through their paces."

"How fortunate for her that she had such a good friend there with her," Ross said, as he continued on his way into the club. If he were not so well-bred, Jensen would have said his smile was closer to a snarl.

Jensen was tempted to take out his quizzing glass and give his lordship a close examination. He’d see nothing but the back of a superbly cut coat, but perhaps there might be some clue as to the man’s disagreeable temper. He wondered why Danneel had ever consented to the match--the obvious reason was for his not-inconsiderable fortune and the opportunity to gain the title of Marchioness, but Jensen had thought he knew his friend to be above that sort of scheme.

Jared was calling to him, though, so Jensen put the marquess’s ill temper out of his mind and went off to see what the night had in store for him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jeff had, in fact, forgone the quieter option of dinner at White’s, having decided that the cold buffet Mary-Louise provided would suffice. More importantly, her wines and spirits were oftentimes better than anything he could be served in all of London.

He started the night with deep basset and faro, but as the clock ticked on and the itch under his skin grew more and more insistent, he found himself in one of the back rooms holding the bank, dice in his hand. Mary-Louise made her usual rounds, smiling and making sure her guests had everything they could possibly desire, but Jeff wasn’t so far gone that he missed the sharp, assessing glances she favored him with.

"You’re in quite the mood this evening," she said as he closed out another round and reminded those at his table that he wasn’t accepting vowels. It was unusual but not unheard of for the bank not to accept notes of hand, but the less he had to interact with society this evening, the better it would go for everyone.

"Have you received complaints?" Jeff asked in a low growl.

"Not so far." Mary-Louise put her hand on his arm, a cautionary touch that did little but raise his temper higher. "Perhaps it would be best to let someone else take the bank." She spoke lightly but her eyes were serious, and Jeff was reminded of all that it had taken for her to reach this spot of semi-respectability. No lady of the _ton_ would acknowledge her, of course, and most gentlemen would look right through her if they saw her in any capacity other than as their hostess for a night of gaming, but to have the house and the staff was a luxury few women cast out by their family ever achieved.

They had an amiable relationship, one that sometimes extended beyond the gaming table; and if in the past she had never directly given Jeff the information he sought, she had often enough pointed him to the person who would. Jeff accepted her help and offered his protection when he could; after dangers of Dublin and Lisbon and Madrid, he would not intentionally cause her harm here in London. That was, he knew, what she counted on: that he would take her presence in the hazard room as the first warning he was crossing a line. It was not her fault that he had had enough of being told how he was not living up to expectations.

"Perhaps it would," Jeff said finally. He collected the money he’d staked and allowed one of Mary-Louise’s capable assistants to take his place, but shook the lady herself off when she suggested they take in a cold plate or two.

"You have your admirers waiting for you at the tables," Jeff told her. It was, after all, one of the attractions of the house: an intelligent, beautiful woman who could deal faro like the sharpest of them all. Every minute she was away from the table was money out of her pocket, and Jeff was not so foolish as to mistake his temper for anything other than a boy’s pique. "Go; I’ll take advantage of your chef’s work on my own."

"By which you mean you’ll try more of my cellar," she said, with less of an edge to her voice than Jeff deserved. "Have a care, my love. Even the finest brandy works its evil without regard for who might be drinking it."

She swept out the door, the watered silk of her skirts rustling softly; from the front room, Jeff could hear the greetings called to her from the faro tables. He took himself off to the buffet, filling his plate with the plainest of its offerings before settling in a corner table. His wine was refilled regularly, which was not, he thought, the wisest of actions, but it was wine rather than brandy and he was eating, so that must even the table some.

It was of no matter, though; not when a fresh wave of guests entered the room and he recognized Robert’s dark head among them. Before Jeff could quit his table, Robert had seen him as well, and was excusing himself from his party to cross over to Jeff’s table.

"Jeffrey," Robert said, smiling and extending his hand so that Jeff took it automatically. "It is good to see you after these many years."

Robert’s smile was still the personal one, and if his words could be construed by the casual listener as meaning something different than they did to Jeff, well, theirs had never been a relationship that had been as it seemed on the surface.

A waiter hurried up with a glass for Robert, reminding Jeff that he didn’t need to be causing a scene for Mary-Louise to have to clean up, so he nodded as Robert asked wordlessly if he might take the other chair at the small table, and even went so far as to pour him some of the wine still in the carafe. At the very least it was alcohol Jeff himself wouldn’t be imbibing.

"You look well, Jeff," Robert said quietly. "I know these last few years have not been the easiest, but you always did have the devil’s own luck in getting in and out of trouble without much more than the occasional scrape."

Jeff shook his head; the "occasional scrape" had been one thing when he was barely out of the schoolroom; they seemed to take longer and longer to recover from as he aged.

"I’ve not had the chance to congratulate you on the baronetcy," Jeff said. It was not the most smooth of subject changes, but it was one he felt sure would be successful in distracting Robert from what he thought he might know of Jeff’s life.

"Thank you," Robert said, leaning forward to add, "It is due in no small part to your efforts, you know. I am sorry that cannot be more widely known."

There was something not quite sincere in his voice; in all the many years and guises of their relationship, it was perhaps the first time Jeff could remember thinking that. He had long since come to accept that Robert spoke the truth that best benefited his own interests, but he could not think of a time when Robert had not first convinced himself of whatever that might be.

Coupled with Jeff’s already fraying temper, it was enough for him to answer, equally quietly, "Perhaps it might ease your mind to at least let your lady wife know, so that she is not ready to fly London should our paths cross once more."

Robert sat back in his chair, blinking in some confoundment before a knowing look came into his eyes. "I know that you have long held Lady Phillip in some disregard--I do understand your dislike of what I had to do to further my career, not having your advantages of wealth and family--but I had thought you above such commentary." He stood--calmly, so none might think there had been words exchanged--and finished, "Perhaps we should find time for a luncheon, when we might better discuss our business without the effects of Mrs. Parker’s wine cellar muddying the waters."

The part of Jeff that had learned hard lessons at the hands of his ill-considered temper had him pushing away from his table and making his way to the door, stamping down with hard force on the other parts, those that howled he was giving the field over without a fight. Aided no doubt by Mary-Louise’s very excellent cellar, those parts had very nearly succeeded in turning him about and sending him back in when he all but ran down a familiar pair of green eyes. It should not have been too great of a shock--for all the gaming hells in London, Parker’s was the darling at the moment; every young blade worth his Hessians found his way to Mary-Louise’s tables at least once--but to be in the same company twice in a single day while fighting off the demons of the past was somewhat more than Jeff counted as ordinary.

Those eyes took in everything: Jeff’s poorly concealed agitation, the porter Jeff knew had been taxed to watch over him, Robert’s tall figure standing out in the group beyond. Jeff saw the curiosity flicker across the other man’s face, and braced himself for the questions that must surely follow. Ackles said nothing, however; merely contenting himself with a slight bow and an inquiry as to whether Jeff would consider joining Ackles’s group at one of the faro tables.

"Mr. Murray is taking the bank." For an unexceptional statement delivered in the blandest of tones, it carried a wealth of meaning, promising untold amusements in which Jeff was invited to partake, should he so desire. Somewhat to Jeff’s own surprise, he found it not unappealing. It salved his pride that he was not leaving or ceding the common ground to Robert, while offering his temper a distraction.

"No limits this evening, gentlemen. Are we in agreement?" Murray was saying, making the arrangements with Mary-Louise’s majordomo as Jeff walked up in Ackles’s company. A table was prepared for them and play commenced. Jeff was hardly in top form, his thoughts still in some disorder, but he had played for far higher stakes than money in his life. It was a lively group, to be sure, but good-natured and civil as well as deep-dipping at the bank. Captain Padalecki played with a reckless ease that did much to cloud the level of his skill; Major Welling showed so little emotion he might have been home abed. Mr. Murray was remarkably astute at the bank, belying the careless disposition he affected. Jeff still found it highly satisfying to win a hand and watch him frown.

Most interesting to Jeff was Mr. Ackles. He played the table like Jeff himself did--watching each player with a painstaking care disguised behind an affable, if quiet, smile. His bets showed the same deliberation, with an edge toward bravura that on this evening was playing out well. The stack of guineas in front of him grew steadily, but slowly enough that Jeff was certain none of the others noticed. He found it equally fascinating to note that while Mr. Ackles was surely aware that Jeff was cognizant of his strategy, it did not appear to unnerve him.

The game had an ebb and flow to it, a few lighter hands inevitably followed by one where play got deep. Gentlemen bought in and cashed out as the night progressed, some to partake of the buffet, others because they were tapped out. A quiet, unobtrusive porter made certain glasses were replenished and fresh cards were to hand; Mary-Louise stopped by a trifle more frequently than necessary, sitting in on several hands to lend an extra air of competition. Jeff played tolerably well, ending the evening with a few extra pounds in his pocket. The others at the table were well-satisfied with their evening’s entertainment, but Jeff was certain that none of the rest had even a measure of the intensity with which Mr. Ackles collected his winnings.

Jeff did not mention it; to do so seemed churlish in light of Ackles’s own acceptance of Jeff’s behavior, but he was indeed interested. It was, perhaps, nothing more than gambling being in the younger man’s blood--the Black Earl’s legacy, as it were. Jeff found himself curiously loath to accept that, as though he had some stake in finding Ackles more than another careless young society blade.

It was not until they took their leave of their hostess, who favored each of them with a smile before taking Jeff’s hand and eying him critically, that Jeff remembered that he had almost ended his evening in a far less pleasant mood.

"That was quite a turn-around, my love." Mary-Louise leaned close so that only he could hear. "You give him far too much command over you, and allow him to believe he has even more, but I can tell you that he did not like seeing you enjoying yourself this evening. His choler was quite entertaining." She allowed him to kiss her hand and sent him on his way with an air that said while she did not precisely forgive him for taxing her patience, she would nevertheless overlook his behavior.

It was not all that late; a good number of the group was setting out for other, less reputable haunts. Jeff could not help but laugh when he was also invited along; the joys of the Beggar’s Club had long since lost all appeal for him. Captain Padalecki excused himself and Mr. Ackles, as well, saying that they had plans for the following day.

After some few minutes of desultory conversation, Captain Padalecki hailed a cab and disappeared into it with a cheerful reminder that he would be by Cavendish Square quite early in the morning.

"Yes, yes," Jensen sighed as the door slammed behind him and the hackney drove off. "I am not overly fond of the morning," he added to Jeff.

"Given the quantities of brandy I watched him consume, I’m of the opinion that _quite early_ is a relative term," Jeff said mildly.

"He is in the hunt for a matched pair of blacks," Jensen said with another sigh. "For that, I am persuaded he would rise at dawn and be full of cheer."

"Weatherly’s blacks? I had heard he was done in."

"I believe so," Jensen answered, his voice doubtful as he added, "I’m to be the voice of reason as we look them over."

"I find myself in much the same situation," Jeff agreed. Jeremy had firmly requested Jeff’s presence--to any other person, that request would have been an order, but for Jeff, Jeremy had couched it ever so civilly as a tax on their friendship. Given the dismal performance of the chestnut pair upon which Jeremy had so recently thrown away his money, Jeff was not at all surprised he was in the hunt for a new pair, nor that he remembered that Jeff had a far better eye for horseflesh than he himself did. "Given what I’ve seen of the captain’s eye for cattle, I’d wager you’ll have an easier time of it than will I."

They had fallen into step as they spoke, a companionable stroll along toward Piccadilly, there to cross over into the more fashionable part of the city.

"I am done with wagers for the evening, most especially when it comes to our young captain," Jensen said with feeling.

"I was only present for the later parts of the evening, but that went well by all accounts."

"That was an uncommon run at the end, was it not?" Jensen said, with an unexpected grin that lightened his face even in the dim light thrown by the gas streetlights. Jeff found himself returning it easily. "It was more the as-yet-unsettled wagers I had in mind--Jared is a persuasive man."

He did not seem inclined to add details and they walked in companionable silence for some while. As they came upon the corner where Jeff would take the turn for Clarges Street, Jeff said, "You’ll forgive my bluntness, but I find myself in your debt for the evening."

"Not at all," Jensen said promptly. "Happy to have been able to include you." Jeff snorted at the platitude, and Jensen added, with more honesty, "It is rare fun to have someone who plays as sharply as you do at my elbow."

"Likewise," Jeff said, and then hesitated, searching for words as they stood on the corner.

After several seconds, Jensen said, not unkindly, "I apprehend there is … some history between you and Sir Robert, but I assure you, I am not offended that you are not able to share it."

"History," Jeff said, with a short laugh. "Yes, there is that. We do better when we do not mix in the same circles, but I’m in for the season, courtesy of my grandmother, so I suppose I should make do and find a way around it all. I did not expect to end the evening so well. For that, I truly am in your debt."

"I find it difficult to accept a debt when I gained such enjoyment from such little effort," Jensen said with a small bow. "When I say I’m happy to have been of service, I mean that with deepest sincerity."

As his voice and manner were indeed most sincere, Jeff would be churlish to continue with thanks as though he could not believe the other man was speaking truly. He accepted the statement with a bow of his own, saying, "As we both have friends who are determined we should accompany them in the morning, I’ll leave you here and suppose we’ll meet again shortly."

"With pleasure," Jensen said, continuing on toward Cavendish Square and leaving Jeff to make his way to his rooms and Ferguson, who would at least be marginally happy to see Jeff, if only because it meant his night would not be disturbed by having to deliver Jeff from the tender mercies of the Watch.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jensen rose early and did without his usual morning ride so that he could make his way to the City and the offices of Messrs. Kripke and Singer. As he stepped down from the hackney coach into the busy street, he marveled at the difference a few short miles could make. The streets were more narrow here in the financial district; there were few trees and none of the parks or squares of the London Jensen knew. There was nonetheless much life and vitality; men--dressed in sober black, or sometimes gray--hurried to and fro and carriages thronged the streets. The few women Jensen saw also dressed with less of an eye toward fashion, though he knew enough to recognize rich fabrics and trimmings when he saw them. He wasn’t there to study the differences between the Upper Ten Thousand and the rest of the country, though, and he had little enough time as it was.

He hurried up the front stairs and into the reception area. He was expected; an assistant met him and showed him into Kripke’s somewhat garish but perfectly adequate office.

After exchanging pleasantries, and ascertaining Jensen would prefer coffee over tea, Kripke wisely determined that business was indeed Jensen’s highest priority and opened his files.

"I’m sorry to tell you, sir, but I’ve had no success in persuading my lord Richardson to take up investments other than the most basic of bonds," Kripke said, picking up a letter in what Jensen could easily recognize as his brother’s strong script. "He is most adamant that we not risk what little capital the estate has in speculative ventures."

"I had feared that would be the case," Jensen sighed. "No blame to you, sir--he is as stubborn as they come, and does not trust in anything but the land."

"Your father, may God rest him, felt much the same way," Kripke offered.

"My father spent a lifetime in the shadow of _his_ father," Jensen said. "I had hoped my brother might see that his reactions were born of that. A yield of five percent on what little capital we have is not going to bring us out of that debt in any year soon."

"I believe your brother understands that, but the thought of risk in something he does not perfectly comprehend is not something he wishes to indulge in, no matter how highly I recommend the investment," Kripke said.

"You have something?"

"There is a mining venture in South America," Kripke answered. He reached for another pile of papers, spreading them across his desk and inviting Jensen to study them. "I cannot recommend the firm highly enough, but there is, of course, some not inconsiderable risk."

"Of course," Jensen murmured, studying the letters and surveys. It was, as Kripke noted, not without risk, yet the company was experienced and successful and held rights from the governments in question. They had shipping lines already in place and agents in markets around the world. The potential for a handsome profit to investors was a solid one.

"You’ve shown this to my brother?" Jensen asked, looking up from the documents and nodding at Kripke’s affirmative. "Joshua, Joshua," Jensen sighed.

"Perhaps you might be interested yourself?"

"I?" Jensen laughed. "I would indeed be interested, but the sum total of the funds I personally have available for investment come to the three hundred odd guineas in my desk from last night’s faro winnings."

"A good night’s work, should you ask me," Kripke offered, seemingly nonplussed by Jensen’s admission. "Even small investments can bring changes."

Jensen nodded again, thoughtfully, and his eyes returned to the papers on the desk. He read through them again with care, making note of the things he did not understand or that were not clear. He finished as Kripke’s assistant returned with the coffee, served out of an elaborate urn that Jensen recognized as being of Arabic design. As they drank their coffee, instead of exchanging more meaningless pleasantries Jensen allowed Kripke to answer those questions he had, judging the responses as carefully as he had the papers.

Kripke did not have answers to every question Jensen raised; Jensen rated him highly for his honesty in admitting what he did not know. In the end, Jensen listened to that part of him that told him how to play a hand at faro and basset and when to roll the dice in hazard, and signed a draft on his personal account at Hoare's for investment in the venture. He resolutely did not think about the five hundred pounds he had wagered on Captain Padalecki--that, too, was a calculated risk. He knew the state of the family finances as well as anyone, and despite knowing for certain that Joshua would not approve--nor would his father have--he was comfortable with the risk.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"For pity’s sake, Jeffrey," Jeremy sighed, putting up his glass and giving Jeff’s attire a careful quiz. "Must every day be funereal? Black and black, unrelieved by anything save white, is deadly dull."

He smoothed his striped waistcoat and adjusted the elaborate cuffs of his linen shirt. His cravat was equally elaborate ("Just a basic waterfall; really, Jeffrey, don’t be tiresome") but the crowning glory was his pantaloons of a particularly virulent shade of yellow.

"I’ll leave the heights of fashion in your capable hands," Jeff said, dryly. "Or did you want me distracted while we give Weatherly’s cattle a good going-over?"

"No, no, my mistake." Jeremy shot Jeff a look that said he was prepared to suffer Jeff’s inadequacies in silence for the sake of his stables, but that his patience was growing thin. Since Jeremy had been giving Jeff that very look since they had been schoolboys at Eton and Jeff wouldn’t have it any other way, the morning was off to an excellent start.

It was not uncommon for a spoiled son of the _ton_ to have overextended his finances and have his spending privileges cut off by an irate father. Generally, the horses sold in such circumstances weren’t worth more than a cursory glance, having been purchased more for their looks as accessories than for true excellence. Mr. Michael Weatherly was different, though. Far more than the delights of London’s gaming hells, his stable and his inability to pass by the stalls of Tattersall’s without adding to that stable had proved his downfall. Word had been filtering through the gentlemen of the _ton_ steadily; Jeff was rather surprised that there were only some five or six groups milling around the commercial enterprise where Weatherly had had his stables moved in anticipation of his own removal to the country.

Jeremy tossed the reins to a groom and disappeared in the direction of the stalls, motioning impatiently at Jeff who was moving more slowly. It was too late, though; as they came around the corner, they could see the blacks harnessed to a high-perch phaeton that Jeff recognized as belonging to Captain Padalecki, who, from the smile that graced his countenance, had just made an offer that had been accepted. Jensen stood off to one side, but where Jeff expected to see a patient, perhaps long-suffering air about him, he was more than a little animated. As Jeff drew nearer, he realized the cause of such excitement was a beautiful roan mare, her coat glossy and shining and her eyes bright and lively.

"Now there’s a beauty," Jeff said, coming to stand behind Jensen. The mare looked briefly at Jeff, but then returned her attention to the other man, whickering gently. Jeff laughed at the clear snub. "Clearly, she’s found her heart’s desire."

"The head groom says she rides as sweetly as he’s ever seen," Jensen said, reaching out to run a hand over her neck and shoulder. She tossed her head at that, as if to say that she would be happy to show her paces, but only to Jensen. Jeff, she still ignored.

"You should make an offer for her," Captain Padalecki said, coming up behind them. "Weatherly is taking only his personal mount; says his father won’t pay to stable any more of his pretty things." He was distracted by a shout from another group who had arrived only in time to find themselves too late, and strode off to meet them and, Jeff judged, preen a bit.

"Would that I could," Jensen murmured, softly enough that Jeff was certain he was not meant to hear. The mare answered, butting her head at Jensen’s shoulder, but after one more lingering pat he stepped back and squared his shoulders. Before Jeff could decide whether or not to admit that he had indeed heard, Jeremy called for him.

"The blacks were stolen right out from under my eyes by that overgrown, underdressed puppy and his friend, but Weatherly says he has a second pair. Not so perfectly matched, of course," Jeremy broke off to glare at the captain, "but they look to be a fine pair."

"So say you," Jeff said, dryly, but the second pair were indeed decent. "Much better than those blown chestnuts you were swindled by," he added, enjoying Jeremy’s glare as always. "No more than three hundred pounds for them, Jeremy, and you’d be much better served not going above two hundred and fifty."

He left Jeremy on that note and rejoined Jensen, who had moved away from the stalls but who clearly was still distracted by the roan mare. He also clearly did not wish to speak about her, or any details of his suggested purchase of her. Jeff was curious, but not overwhelmingly so, he told himself.

"Your prediction of last night proved correct, I take it," Jeff said, nodding to the truly beautiful pair of blacks that Padalecki’s groom was taking charge of. "No such thing as too early, eh?"

"Apparently, the good captain can still crawl out of bed at dawn," Jensen answered dryly. "I had business to attend to in the City; he very nearly left me before I could make my way back."

"What business could be more important than these beauties?" Padalecki said, joining them.

"The kind that ensures the opportunity to keep them, not be forced to cash them out," Jensen said.

"Of course, of course, but since you’re passing on that mare, that wouldn’t appear to have happened." Padalecki surveyed the situation with an unexpectedly astute eye. "Strange--I know for a fact you stood up from the faro table three hundred pounds richer than when you sat down last night."

"I am," Jensen said, amiably enough, but Jeff saw the steely glint in his eye, "all-in on a South American mining venture at present."

Padalecki stared for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. "It’s good to see that nerveless streak doesn’t just apply when you’re sitting at the faro table. If you play your ventures like you play your cards, I should probably ask you for the details."

"Of course," Jensen said, as a groom led the roan mare out past them for one of the other gentlemen to see. She tossed her head coquettishly, and Jensen reached out to pet her one last time before they left.

Jeremy returned, triumphant in obtaining Weatherly’s second pair and deep in consultation with his head groom about making a place for them in his stables. Jeff waited as patiently as he was able, and found himself distracted by the protracted negotiation over the roan mare. The young blade who’d mounted her had hands like iron buckets; Jeff saw none of her spirit or fire under the idiot’s reins.

"Jeffrey," Jeremy sighed, and Jeff realized he’d missed several moments of conversation. Jeremy followed his eyes and studied the mare thoughtfully. "Well, now..."

Jeff hesitated--he was renting space at a hostelry as it was, and had no need of yet another mount, especially one that he would have to leave behind when he returned to Italy. His grandmother no longer rode; Sophia was not fond enough of riding to appreciate this particular horse’s spirit, and he had no care about the rest of the family. It was ridiculous to consider, but before he even finished the thought, he’d called Weatherly’s agent over and told him to name his price.

"And get that idiot off her back," Jeff added as he ignored the look Jeremy was giving him through a quizzing glass. "Not now, Jeremy."

"No, no," Jeremy drawled. "Wouldn’t dream of intruding on this moment. It might be the first time I’ve ever paid less for a horse than you have. It’s a most exquisite feeling; I must savor it."

"So long as you do it _silently_ ," Jeff growled, and tried to work out just exactly when he’d lost whatever sense he normally possessed, and why he couldn’t seem to care that he had.


	3. Chapter 3

To Jensen's great pleasure, the lessons he shared with Jared at Gentleman Jackson's saloon had shown him a heretofore undiscovered talent. He rode and hunted, of course, and had taken fencing lessons alongside Joshua. He enjoyed all of that, but found the boxing was an especial diversion, and one that he took to with ease. Jackson himself often spent more than the usual few minutes with him, and Jared more than once gave over his own time for Jensen to gain a few more pointers or tips.

After a time, Jackson felt Jensen needed more challenge than simply sparring with the same partner afforded him, and so Jensen found himself in the ring with any number of the _ton_ , including, on one memorable occasion, Lord Byron himself. Danneel was beside herself with excitement, though publicly she only teased Jensen that perhaps he should take a page from the poet's book and learn a charming turn of phrase or two. She was much taken with this idea, repeating it on several occasions. Jensen should have been annoyed with her, but it was not at all like Lady Ross; he could only be happy to see his dearest friend again.

Most often, though, Jackson would call Jeff Morgan into the ring to work with Jensen. Jared asked once if Jensen felt it awkward, sparring with another gentleman he knew. Jared had become a friend, so Jensen could admit he was far too occupied trying to dodge the very serious facer Morgan seemed determined to plant him.

"You're much quicker than he," Jared said, laughing. "Good, that."

"Very," Jensen agreed, too winded to insert the proper level of acerbity in his words. Jared laughed more, as though he knew exactly how far toward the devil Jensen might wish him. The brief break was over, though, and Jackson was calling for the next round, so Jared took pity on Jensen and doused him with somewhat-cool water from the ringside bucket before sending him back out to meet his doom.

Not only was the time spent at Jackson's salon beneficial in a physical way, it also allowed Jensen the opportunity to know Jared better. Soon it became decidedly odd for Taylor not to be announcing Jared's name at some point during the afternoon, and most evenings, even the ones with other social engagements, found them dining together, whether at Jensen's table or at White's, that most venerable of gentlemen's clubs that Jared's family on his mother's side had long belonged to.

While Jensen quite enjoyed the many diversions of town life, he found himself very much looking forward to an excursion put together by Miss Bush under Lady Graham's auspices. It was all quite informal, a trip early in the day by horse and carriage to Bexley with a picnic and time spent viewing the ancient abbey, but it was an opportunity to ride somewhere that was not Hyde Park. For all that the estates around Richardson Hall had long since become familiar and stifling to Jensen, he missed being able to truly ride every day, and how clear-headed it left him.

Jared quite understood, and so, when Taylor came to Jensen the afternoon before the excursion to inform him that the grooms had relayed that Jensen's gelding was favoring his off-foreleg, Jensen had no need to paste on an indifferent face for Jared as they hurried out to see for themselves.

"At least it's a minor strain," Jared offered, as they exited the stables and stood in the mews, debating how best to accommodate this change to the usual afternoon Promenade. "He should be right as rain in a few days, not that that is of much use to you today."

Jensen insisted he was fine with a stroll, that Jared should go on and ride, but Jared stood firm in keeping their appointment to spend the afternoon together. Despite the late hour, he offered to send to the livery and have his blacks harnessed to the phaeton for the afternoon. In the end, after much discussion, Jensen allowed Jared to choose, and it was decided a brief walk along Rotten Row was much simpler and not insupportable.

"I don't suppose we'll need to walk much," Jared noted, with the unconscious entitlement of one who had a half-dozen horses available for his every whim and thus had no notion that it was anything other than great sport. "Not if we don't choose to."

Indeed, they had barely made their way out of Cavendish Square when they were hailed by Mr. Murray. He did not offer to take them up, as he was fully occupied with both his somewhat skittish team and the high-flyer in the seat next to him.

"Covent Garden?" Jensen murmured, as the young woman carelessly adjusted the rather large brooch she had pinned to the shoulder of her barely fitting gown, flashing a dimpled smile and an overly excessive display of bosom at Jared.

"Astley's Amphitheater," Jared answered, blushing. "She is on stage, I believe."

"I would be very surprised if she were not," Jensen answered, as the carriage disappeared along the crowded avenue.

"He is quite besotted," Jared added, somewhat unnecessarily. "She expressed a desire to take part in an afternoon promenade and there was nothing but he must satisfy her whim."

"I'm certain his trustees will hold well with that desire," Jensen said, and Jared laughed.

"Well, there might also have been his own desire to drop those gentlemen into an early grave," he agreed. They continued along their way, exchanging greetings as they went.

Jensen firmly expected Jared to be swept up into an acquaintance's carriage, but to his surprise it was his own name he heard being called as they entered the Park, and turned to find Sophia seated alongside her cousin in his curricle.

"What disaster has befallen you; I do not believe I have ever seen you on foot," Sophia called to them. Jared explained the predicament, and there was much dismay expressed when Jensen added that he must beg off the outing to Bexley the next day.

"Of course you must not put your horse at risk," Sophia said. Jensen was braced for the wonder that he did not have a second mount, or for the suggestion that he hire a hack for the day, but she only continued, "I should offer you a place in our carriage but I am afraid it will be quite tedious. I know you longed to ride."

"I am promised to take Miss Cortese to visit a cousin and must drive my blacks. Diablo will allow no one but me on his back, but perhaps you might find my chestnut not too ill-behaved," Jared offered, but doubtfully. Jensen knew he was having much trouble with the horse; for Jared to offer, he must think Jensen overly disheartened. While Jensen was more disappointed than he might have imagined, it was part and parcel of keeping a horse past his prime, no matter how great a heart he had.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jeff could perfectly discern the disappointment in his cousin's voice. Sophia was an intelligent girl, quite full of sense and not at all taken in by the whirlwind of attention. Her favor consistently fell to Mr. Ackles, and other than the regrettable lack of money in the family Jeff could not fault her decision. While Jeff knew she was looking forward to playing the hostess, he had some strong suspicions that the entire outing had been organized with Jensen's tastes in mind, and Sophia was truly cast down at the thought of him not enjoying it.

"Perhaps I might be able to help," Jeff heard himself saying. Sophia turned to him with hope dancing in her eyes, and it was for that reason, Jeff assured himself, that he put forth a plan to see how his new mare, the one he'd gotten off Weatherly, might suit Jensen. It had nothing to do with the flash of emotion he caught crossing Jensen's face.

"The pretty roan?" Jared asked, clapping Jensen on the back. "Splendid! She deserved a good situation."

As Jeff's bays were taking great exception to being held to a walk, swift arrangements were made for a meeting at the livery stable Jeff was using, and he let the horses have their heads. Sophia squeaked and clutched at the sides of the curricle as they swept around a corner at a brisk pace.

"Cousin," she reproached. "How can you be so kind one moment, and turn me inside out the next?"

"It is only a trot," Jeff answered, grinning down at her. "What might a full gallop do?"

"I should need Lady Graham's vinaigrette," Sophia admitted, before adding, with a sly good humor, "I may be faint-hearted in a carriage, but I should like to see you keep peace between Fraser and Umberto."

As Lady Graham's house was perpetually balanced on the knife's edge of domestic warfare between the kitchen and the butler's pantry, Jeff could not help but shudder. "That, cousin, is entirely to your credit."

He held the bays to the trot for a full turn around the park before setting Sophia down in front of Lady Graham's house and taking them out along the river for a better run, returning to the livery stable just as the two other men arrived. Jeff handed off the bays to the groom who came running up, and asked the stablemaster to bring out his new mare. When she arrived, to the surprise of no one except Jensen himself, she went straight to him.

"There!" Jared exclaimed. "I told you she would remember her preference." As he also kept his stables at this livery and had missed his customary afternoon ride in order to keep company with Jensen, he proposed a turn or two about town. "After all, we should not leave the success of tomorrow's outing to chance."

"Of course not," Jeff said, dryly, but who was he to argue with any scheme that got him out on horseback? It took but a few minutes for the grooms to have their mounts ready, and they were off, Jeff on his Ixion, Jensen on the roan mare, and Jared on a monster of a black stallion that did his best to tear apart the small courtyard in front of the stables before he could be brought under control.

"This is my Diablo," Jared said, with a breathless laugh, "and he is more than a little annoyed with me for ignoring him in favor of the chestnut I've been trying to break in."

"I can well believe the stories you tell about him," Jensen said, circling around them. "Bloodshed and all."

"He is the only reason I am here," Jared said, with far more gravity than Jeff had ever seen from him. Diablo's coat gleamed everywhere but for a long, curving scar over his left haunch, as though he had taken a blow to protect Jared's weak side. "There were several occasions when a lesser horse, with a lesser heart, would have doomed me--he truly earned all honors and accolades." Diablo did not gentle under the praise; on the contrary, he did his best to dash Jared into the courtyard wall. "And the occasional ill-tempered ride," Jared added, back to the breathless laughter.

"Morecomb surely did not see him before he made that wager," Jensen said, keeping a healthy distance between his mount and Jared's.

"Not at all," Jared answered cheerfully. "He took me aside the other night at White's, you know. Offered me one last chance to cancel the whole affair. Said he felt badly about taking advantage of my inexperience with the area, how I shouldn't assume the roads would all be like they were here in the city."

Jeff could not help but laugh; he'd ridden some of the mountains in Portugal and Spain, where the Peninsular armies had pushed through to France. Half the time he suspected the Hussars had ignored the roads completely in favor of the entertainment of riding cross-country.

"I assured him that I was confident I could handle such roads as would be found in the wilds of Essex, so he might continue his preparations for the mystery package to be delivered for my retrieval."

Given that all three of their horses were fresh and clearly wanting for some exercise, they quickly settled on a spirited ride to Wimbledon and back. Though it was late afternoon and both Jared and Jensen were promised to look in on Lady Sefton's ball, both claimed they were in such desperate need of a good, hard ride they would risk the lady's wrath at their arriving late, should it come to that.

It did not--indeed, Jeff was certain that Diablo could have had Jared back in time for tea--and all three of them were well-satisfied with their excursion as they slowed to a trot on their return and worked their way through the crowds on Piccadilly, debating on a name for the mare. Jared had an entire library of horrible ideas; Jensen apologized for the overdone nature of his, but favored a variety of goddesses within the Greek pantheon; Jeff found himself playing referee, and enjoying himself immensely. They had decided during the ride that it would be best for Jensen to keep the mare overnight at the stables behind his house; they were some few blocks from Cavendish Square when they had the misfortune to overtake Sir Robert Phillip, finishing his own afternoon promenade with his daughter and wife.

"Mr. Morgan," Robert called, punctiliously polite as always. That Jeff knew he used formality as a smokescreen to mask and blur those parts of the truth with which he did not wish to deal was irrelevant. The illusion of formality was for those watching--it wouldn't do, Robert had explained a very long time ago, for anyone to know what Jeff had truly been to him. "I wonder if we might have a word."

When Jeff did not immediately answer, all eyes swiveled to him. He read irritation in Robert's; a vague animosity in Lady Phillip's. Jared might have been curious but was too well-bred to show it, while Jensen... Jensen might be exactingly polite to the Phillips, but for another of those swift seconds, Jeff read nothing but cool contempt in his eyes as they flickered over the family.

As Miss Phillip was acquainted with Miss Cortese and had many friends in common, Jared dropped back to ride next to her, while Jensen did the same with Lady Phillip. From the brief snatch of conversation Jeff heard, Jensen was managing with the most banal of topics, stretched to excruciating lengths. Jeff bit back a grin at the unassailable politeness of it all and wondered if Lady Phillip had any idea that Jensen was anything other than the most boring of gentlemen.

"Sir," Robert was saying, and with no small effort Jeff brought himself back to their own conversation. "I have had word from a mutual friend in St. Petersburg; I wonder if you might have had the same."

This was generally Jeff's cue to step in and assure Robert and those who took what Jeff delivered and made sense of it that he would look into the matter, but since Jeff had--with increasing firmness and decreasing civility--made well known his intention to travel no further than the lake over which his villa in Italy looked unless it was upon a personal whim, he only answered, "I have not, and don't expect to." He could not help adding, "I feel certain my letters explaining that I must decline, in order to tend to business of my own, were forwarded to you."

Robert forgot himself long enough to glare at Jeff before the mask of sober politeness fell back over his features. "They were, but since this would not be the first time we have heard such sentiments from you, only to persuade you otherwise, I felt it likely a personal inquiry might bring about a more favorable reply."

Since he did speak the truth--on more than one occasion Jeff had allowed himself to be persuaded into changing his plans--Jeff could not fault him. The tiniest of emphases on "personal," however, rendered what might have been a reasonable statement into something that had Jeff's teeth grinding, as though a word from Robert might override Jeff's own wishes. He found it particularly insulting to think that Robert believed that Jeff bowed to his persuasions for reasons having to do with ancient history between them and not for anything that might do with the overwhelming need to bring Bonaparte down.

"I've business to attend to," Jeff managed to reply through a jaw clenched tight against the other, less prudent words that begged to be set free, "and since our... arrangement has always been of an informal nature, I don't see that I need to go into my reasons any further."

"Yes," Robert said, and Jeff remembered that not-quite sneer, how it flashed out at those Robert felt did not merit more than the pretense of civility. "I understand that you are much seen in the drawing rooms about town this year, and your acquisition of several new horses has inspired much speculation of your permanent return amongst those who care about such things. They look to your young cousin to benefit from your extravagance--the odds are shortening that Lady Graham will effect a marriage soon--but remember that I know the signs and can see that your intentions clearly lie elsewhere."

He swept a look over Jensen and the horse he rode, a look that did not precisely succeed in achieving the cool amusement he clearly wished it might, and, with not-quite-polite bows to Jeff and his companions, gathered his family and rode off.

To Jeff's unspeakable relief, the turn for Cavendish Square was a scant half-block away and then there was the flurry of settling the mare in her new quarters and providing Jensen's grooms with such information about her as they might need. While he was fairly certain Jared had been far enough back, Jeff could not pretend that Jensen had not overheard Robert's last statement, nor missed the speculative look in Robert's eyes; and he had not the slightest idea how he might explain them if asked. Jensen, however, did not press him for answers, though he did favor Jeff with several long and thoughtful looks, and Jeff was able to make his escape with a minimum of fuss.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jared's pursuit of Miss Cortese continued with much enjoyment on both parts so far as Jensen could see, with many meetings at the assemblies at Almack's, private parties, and the grand ball or two. When Jared approached Jensen to ask if Jensen might be inclined to escort Miss Bush to a balloon ascension while Jared did the same with Miss Cortese, Jensen could hardly refuse the scheme.

He duly presented himself at Jared's rooms on the morning of the event and, after some debate, convinced Jared that the short journey to the fields where the ascension was to take place did not call for his phaeton and a team of four; that his curricle and the matched blacks would be sufficient. Jared had an uncommonly fine eye for horseflesh, but his ideas of necessary energy and stamina owed much to his battlefield experiences on the Peninsula and were not always the best suited for peaceful gatherings. His groom had had the same idea, so there was no further delay in setting out to meet the young ladies.

Miss Bush made the journey with Miss Cortese and her mama in the latter's barouche, accompanied by a coachman and groom, leading the way to the open fields. Jared's team was fresh and energetic, but he kept them under control effortlessly and handed the reins over to the groom with some reluctance. Jensen carefully did not smile at the longing in his friend's face to take his team through their paces, but then Jared caught sight of Miss Cortese, and everything but his delight in escorting her disappeared.

Jensen offered Miss Bush his arm and they made their way carefully across the field. After a few paces, Miss Bush nodded to the other couple and leaned closer to Jensen to murmur, "If we lag behind, they will not feel as though they should be obliged to make conversation with us." Her face was grave but her eyes danced as she continued, "I don't know if you have noticed, but neither of them can think properly when the other is around and it is quite exhausting trying to converse with them when they are like that."

Jensen nodded, slowing his pace as unobtrusively as possible. He endeavored to match Miss Bush's serious expression, but could not help a tell-tale quirk of his mouth as Jared trod on, Miss Cortese hurrying to match his pace and not looking the tiniest bit put-out about it.

"I don't think they should even notice we're not there," Miss Bush said, with the slightest hint of laughter.

"They are very much diverted by each other," Jensen agreed. He kept Jared in sight as the crowds grew larger, but did not otherwise interrupt his friend. The day was quite fine, no clouds to mar the skies nor threaten the fine dresses of the ladies with a sudden shower. The balloon itself was a magnificent sight, made of silks arranged in a harlequin pattern of greens and golds and purples, straining against the ropes that held the basket attached below it. It was picketed to the ground, the guide ropes held by some twenty stout young men. The crowds surrounding it came from all of the city--the fashionable young ladies and gentlemen to one side, working-class tradesmen on the other, all with a sprinkling of soberly dressed barristers and businessmen. An excited murmur rippled across the field as the balloonist approached the giant basket, swelling into a cheer as the guide ropes were cast off and the balloon slowly began to rise.

The men on the ground played out the ropes carefully until the balloon was but a speck in the sky. There was a moment or two of excitement as the wind picked up and the ropes snapped taut and all but dragged the lighter of the men off their feet, but they were clearly accustomed to the task at hand, and with much shouting and coordination, they brought the balloon back under control. Jensen procured some lemonade and a hearty pie for a bit of refreshment, all the more novel for its less-refined qualities. The balloon might stay aloft for some hours, or it might be cut loose and chased until it grounded, but for this occasion, the men on the ground merely played out the ropes and then carefully drew it back down. It was still a magnificent sight as it slowly came to rest on the field again. As they departed, Jensen and Miss Bush once again lagged behind Jared and Miss Cortese. Jared had greatly shortened his stride this time, and his head was bent low so he should not miss a word of her conversation. They were every inch the happiest of couples.

"I hope you don't think me forward," Miss Bush said quietly, "but as dear as I find them, I am not looking for such devotion."

"A love match is not such a bad thing," Jensen answered, after a bit.

"I cannot argue," Miss Bush said. "I had hopes of one. Great hopes," she whispered. "But he had a cornetcy, and served on the Duke's staff and--" Her voice broke for a moment, but only briefly. "It has been almost a year now, since Waterloo, and his family has heard nothing. His batman was found, but--"

She stopped then, and allowed Jensen to guide her across the field.

"I had not thought I would marry," Jensen admitted after a few moments' silence. "Our circumstances have dictated it, however."

"I should like to have a home of my own," she said presently, in a quiet, steady voice. "And a family, for I have many cousins, but none to whom I am particularly close. Lady Graham was very kind and brought me here so that I might meet a greater number of people than I should have the opportunity to know in the country."

"I have a sister," Jensen said. "Some years younger than you, but in desperate need of someone who is not her brothers to befriend her." He smiled down at Miss Bush. "My brother's wife has known her these many years and is helpless to resist her cajolery."

"You are close to her," Miss Bush observed.

"She would not have it any other way."

"It says good things about you that you are, at least in my eyes." Miss Bush smiled. "I had not hoped to meet such kind friends while I was here, nor grow so close and so fond of my cousin Jeffrey. I feel as though I am the luckiest of women."

Lady Dersingham, Miss Cortese's mama, caught sight of them and waved them toward the barouche. Jensen could see the groom holding Jared's horses just beyond.

"Do you attend Captain Padalecki's dinner following the play at Covent Garden?" he asked.

"I do," she answered. "But I must warn you that Mrs. Siddons is a special favorite of Lady Graham; she will brook no interruptions during the play."

"I am duly warned." Jensen handed Miss Bush into her carriage and bowed slightly. "I look forward to seeing you there."

Jared was abnormally silent on the drive back, and when Jensen inquired if all was well would only answer that it was not so very long ago that he had thought it impossible that he might find such a life as the one he had now. "It puts me in mind of the friends I have had. I cannot comprehend how it is that I am so lucky as to have come home when they did not," he said. He drove on silently again, but then gave a great sigh and said, "I can do nothing for them, and you do not deserve to have to listen to me at times like this."

"On the contrary," Jensen said, with all sincerity. "It's little enough to ask."

Jared drove a small distance further in silence, as though he did not know what to say, and then changed the subject, asking Jensen's opinion on the menu for the supper he was arranging after the play. His smile said he knew that Jensen understood perfectly well what was going on, but that he'd allow Jared the diversion regardless. Jensen's said that Jared was entirely correct, and the rest of the trip passed in amiable discussion.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Even understanding more than most just how much power there was in knowledge, Jeff had no idea how Mary-Louise contrived to collect as much information as she did. Ferguson had been known to mutter the word _witch_ in connection with her name, but only very, very quietly, and only to Jeff. Given that Ferguson claimed much Highland blood in his background, and had some not inconsiderable experience with female relatives who had the Sight, Jeff took it as a healthy mixture of respect, awe, and fear. Mary-Louise took it much less benignly, though her level of toleration increased after the fairly spectacular exit from Lisbon Ferguson had effected in Jeff's stead for her and her household in front of Field Marshal Soult's advancing forces.

However she managed, Jeff had, over the years, come to trust her information implicitly, so that when she passed along to him that there were indeed faint eddies of respectability emerging in the rumors that generally swirled about him, he did not doubt that it was happening, and could only lay the cause at his grandmother's door. More interesting was the fact that Mary-Louise had been approached by none other than Sir Robert Phillip to intercede with Jeff on his behalf.

"You know quite well he would never speak to someone in my position if he were not desperate," she said to Jeff as she poured tea in her personal chambers on the floors above the gaming rooms. Her chef had sent up a variety of dainty morsels; tea was her one personal indulgence in a life built on pleasing others, so Jeff was welcome to share in what was there or not, but in this one area, there was no accommodation made for any taste but her own. "You are not behaving as he thinks you should and it is becoming an alarming issue."

"I've long since ceased caring about what Robert might think," Jeff said.

"Yes, my love, but he is just now coming to understand that," Mary-Louise said, and then added, with impressive patience, "It is not so much that he cares that he does not hold that personal sway with you--though there is some element of that, I am sure. It is that he has built so much on what you have given him over the years--he cannot see how he will continue on his path if he does not have that."

The governess arrived then with the children, who greeted Jeff politely and, when Mary-Louise told them Mr. Morgan had a home in Italy, repeated the greeting in Italian. Jeff answered them with serious intent, as befitted any children who paid such attention to their lessons--which he most certainly had never done--but then took his leave, as they only had limited time with their mother and his tiresome relationships should not interfere with that.

Upon returning to his rooms, he was somehow unsurprised to find a note from Robert, asking again for a meeting. Much more welcome was a brief scrawl in Jeremy's execrable script demanding to know where in blazes Jeff had disappeared to, and advising that Jeremy would, of course, be in the Park for the afternoon promenade should Jeff feel up to shedding his misanthropic tendencies and taking some air. Jeff felt his spirits lift just from seeing the words.

"How could I possibly resist such a heartfelt invitation?" he said not an hour later, as Jeremy slowed his phaeton and allowed Jeff to join him on the seat.

"I'm sure I don't know," Jeremy said. "Though really, Jeff--could you have at least _tried_ for a little color?"

"Your address will just have to carry the both of us," Jeff answered, as he had for nearly thirty years. "There are still any number of years left in this greatcoat."

"You can spend your money, you know," Jeremy said, with unexpected seriousness. "No one will think less of you, and damn them if they do."

"I spend it," Jeff said, with a sigh.

"You take rooms in Clarges Street; the last time you visited a tailor was long enough ago I believe Weston thinks you dead; so far as I can tell--along with every gossip in town--there is no high-flyer sucking you dry. Aside from the occasional horse--which you end up selling back at a profit before you disappear again--how exactly do you spend this money as you claim?"

Jeff was silent for a turn or two, but then he said, "I bought a house?"

Jeremy's mouth twitched into a grin. "Yes, fine, I will speak of other things." True to his word, he spent the rest of the turn about the Park in fine form, critiquing all who crossed their path. When he set Jeff down at the Park's entrance, they made plans for dinner later that evening and Jeff knew he would not bring the subject up again.

It did not mean Jeff was not turning over what Jeremy had said in his mind as he walked the rest of the way down the street. Upon the death of his parents, Jeff had become the ward of his uncle, the current Earl, who had received him with a not-unkind announcement that Jeff was a lucky boy to have inherited as much as he did. As an adult, Jeff could perfectly comprehend what his uncle had been trying to say--he was indeed fortunate to possess enough money to allow him to live however he might choose. To a boy of ten, reeling from the loss of both parents within a week, it had sounded as though Jeff should have been happy to have traded his parents for their money. It was the start of a long and difficult relationship with his uncle, one that remained contentious to this day; and perhaps Jeff could admit the same could be said of Jeff's relationship with the money as well, as Jeremy had so pointedly reminded him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The evening of Jared's theater party saw Collins in a rare taking, as he said that it was the dreaded middle ground between the formal dress and knee breeches of a ball and the more casual attire of the afternoon for which Jensen generally wore riding dress. When Jensen set out, however, Collins had worked his usual magics, somehow contriving clothing that did not look the rusticated bore nor the foppish Dandy. He was heard to mutter that given a few thousand pounds he would have Jensen a Nonpareil, but since Jensen lacked even a few hundred pounds, that was not something upon which either of them dwelled.

By all accounts, the party was a great success. Mrs. Siddons was in spectacular form; her niece Miss Kemble also quite outstanding, and the play--a romantic tragedy in the vein of _Romeo and Juliet_ \--reduced the ladies to tears. Even Lady Graham was seen to surreptitiously dab at the corners of her eyes.

The supper that followed at the Piazza continued the evening in an excellent manner. Jared quite swept Miss Cortese off her feet by having her favorites served, all accomplished without the lady so much as answering a single question as to what those might have been. Jensen suspected a not-insubstantial payment had been made on Jared's behalf to Miss Cortese's dresser in exchange for the information, but no matter the source, Genevieve was charmed. As Jared had made arrangements for several dishes for each course, the entire party was well-served, but no one had any doubts where Jared's heart lay.

As the evening drew to a close, Lady Graham offered Jensen a spot in her carriage for the trip back to Grosvenor Square, a clear sign that she looked favorably upon his suit of her great-granddaughter. It was, of course, precisely why Jensen had traveled to London, and Sophia was eminently suitable: accomplished and well-born, not unintelligent, and most importantly for the Ackles family fortunes, the bearer of a respectable portion, one that might alleviate many of the frustrations still left from the Black Earl's legacy of debts and mismanagement of the estates.

As well, Jensen had become exceedingly fond of her. She was kind and sensitive, and he felt quite sure she would exert a calming influence upon Margaret. Faced with all these many reasonable points, Jensen knew it to be churlish to feel such hesitation in accomplishing his goal, but he allowed himself to acknowledge his misgivings, namely that while he felt--had always felt--a yearning to know more about this world, she was perfectly content with a life bounded by her home. Jensen told himself it was of no great import; it was, after all, exactly how his life had progressed thus far.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Sophia did not generally care to ride, but she drove out each afternoon with Lady Graham in the big, old-fashioned laundaulet. Jensen had formed the habit of riding alongside for a turn or two, which allowed him to pay his respects but also gave him the freedom to ride a little with Jared or Danneel or whomever else he might see, and allowed Sophia the chance to invite such friends as she might see to ride along with her. While it was not a particularly smart vehicle to be seen in, Jensen had strong suspicions that Sophia used it as an opportunity to assess the motives of those she met at the constant routs and balls and assemblies, with those who failed to overlook the appearance falling quite significantly in her estimation. He could not fault her reasoning.

On the third afternoon after Jared's theater party, all appeared as usual as Jensen approached the laundaulet. There was a particular crowd in the park; the Season was at last in full swing and the paths were thronged with more carriages and horses than Jensen had seen yet. Danneel's Grey Lady was in high spirits; Danneel had all that she could do to keep her from bolting, and even sweet-tempered Melete--still in Jensen's stables due to Jeff neatly dodging every attempt Jensen made to return her--took exception at more than one fluttering feather or flying scarf, so it was with some caution that he reined her into a walk beside Sophia. Danneel cantered on ahead, her groom not far behind.

"Is this not ridiculous?" Lady Graham demanded, eyeing the clogged pathways with distaste. "I should like to send half these ridiculous gabys back to whatever shire they belong."

Sophia smiled at Jensen, but with some distraction. Jensen agreed that it was quite a crush, and then, leaning forward, asked if Sophia was quite all right.

"Oh, it is nothing," she answered, in a low voice, quite unlike her usual cheer. "I had thought I saw--"

She bit off the rest of her words, and shook her head slightly. To Jensen's surprise, Lady Graham did not snap or sniff, but rather said kindly, "It is no wonder--half the Expeditionary Force would seem to have resigned their commissions and chosen today as the afternoon to present themselves to society."

She glared as a trio of red-coated young men cantered by, their spirits as high as the plumes on their shakos. "It is a wonder the Duke prevailed with such a racketty corps of officers as this."

Sophia smiled again, with a trifle more cheer, and, clearly wishing to change the subject, asked Jensen if Jared had decided to speak with Genevieve's papa.

"I believe Jared has had that decided from the second he laid eyes on her," Jensen replied, only half jesting, "but he has applied to speak with Lord Dersingham next Friday."

"In my day, he would have done so before ever speaking to the girl," Lady Graham said, but again in an almost-kind tone. When Jensen looked at her in some surprise, she met his gaze calmly. "I don't say it was better then, only that it worked that way."

She seemed likely to say more, but for Sophia drawing her breath in sharply. As they turned to her, her face was white and strained and her hand shook until she clutched the side of the carriage.

"It _is_ \--but it cannot be," she whispered. Lady Graham fumbled in her reticule and produced a small bottle of smelling salts, but Sophia shook them off. "No, no, I am quite--"

She turned to Jensen. "If I were to describe someone, would you--would you approach him for me?"

"Sophia--" Lady Graham started, but Sophia, quite uncharacteristically, spoke over her.

"Would you do me that service?" Her eyes pleaded with him not to ask further.

"Of course," Jensen answered immediately. Whatever his decision about marriage, she had become more than an acquaintance in these past weeks; he would do no less for a friend.

"The man I saw wore the blues of the Royal Horse Guards. He was mounted on a chestnut gelding, riding south," Sophia said, pointing. She reached into her reticule and offered Jensen an oval locket containing a miniature portrait of a man with kind eyes. "It cannot be him, but it is twice now that I have believed that I have seen him. I would know for certain."

"Stripton," Lady Graham called to her coachman. "Return us to Grosvenor Square immediately."

"I shall return there with whatever news I find,"Jensen assured Sophia, and turned to follow Sophia's direction. He set Melete to a brisk trot, weaving between slower-moving carriages and riders, acknowledging greetings as he rode, but only enough to avoid giving rise to undue comments. Danneel would have more than a little to say about him abandoning her on her afternoon ride, but in the brief second in which he'd seen the cluster of Horse Guards riding together, they'd been heading for the main gate, which put them out onto Piccadilly and gave him only a few minutes to find them before they would become lost in the crowds.

He hesitated as he left the park, casting his eyes up and down the busy street. It might already be too late, but just as the thought crossed his mind, he caught sight of a flash of silver and the distinctive blue uniforms of the Horse Guards. He turned Melete in the proper direction and set off after the small troop. As he rode, a small thought insinuated itself into his consciousness. There could be little doubt whom Sophia had thought she had seen; Jensen was, perforce, attempting to find the very person who could negate all the efforts he had put into finding a suitable bride. The thought gained strength as he reviewed the other young ladies of his acquaintance and found them not even as desirable as Sophia. As he thought, he allowed Melete to slow to a walk, until, with a deep flush of shame, he realized he was considering allowing the officer to disappear into the throng and returning to Grosvenor Square with the news he knew Sophia expected, even though it was not what she would have hoped.

Appalled at the very thought, Jensen urged Melete forward and quickly came abreast of the officers. They turned in some surprise, and Jensen did not need to look at the miniature again to know that the Brigade-Major in the center, the left arm of his uniform pinned neatly to the shoulder so it should not hang empty beside him, was indeed he whom he had been sent to find, and his plans fell to pieces around him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

As it was a Wednesday, and thus Assembly night at Almack's, Ferguson had taken the liberty of laying out Jeff's knee breeches and stockings, ignoring Jeff's grumbles regarding the ridiculousness of the patronesses and their very strictly enforced rules on gentlemen's dress and the utter imbecility of serving nothing stronger than a claret cup to ease the sting.

"Barely drinkable claret at that," Jeff added, as Ferguson handed him a cravat to tie round his neck. Ferguson nodded, not unsympathetically, but otherwise did nothing to soothe Jeff's mood, merely assisting him into his coat and then disappearing to procure a hackney cab while Jeff added such adornments to his attire as he saw fit. Since Lady Graham had announced her intention to attend the assembly, they would travel by her carriage; Jeff had entertained some thoughts as to making the short trip to Grosvenor Square house by foot, but Ferguson clearly did not approve of such a casual attitude.

"Lady Graham will not like it," was all he said, and Jeff finally broke down and asked why Ferguson even cared. "The only person in your family who gives a brass farthing about you?" Ferguson demanded, with a look that said he had no idea how Jeff managed to feed himself if he was that stupid. Jeff was taken aback at the fierceness in his voice, and cast about for a safe change of topic.

"It's beyond me how you manage in Italy without all this nonsense," Jeff said, with a pang of longing for his house, where the doors and windows generally stood open to catch the breezes off the lake, and visitors were welcomed with wine and cheese by his eminently hospitable cook-housekeeper no matter how they arrived.

"Doesn't matter there," Ferguson said. "You're the rare commodity, the Englishman who knows everyone worth knowing; they all hang on your every word." He handed Jeff the bicorn hat that went with the knee breeches. "Here, you have to play their game."

"And what if I don't care about their game," Jeff muttered.

"Of course you care," Ferguson answered. "The less they think of you as a problem, the easier it is to pull the wool over their eyes--how else do we live?"

As it was couched in his own words, Jeff couldn't argue the sentiment, as Ferguson well knew. He did allow himself to sigh, but then called his destination to the driver and stepped up into the hack. He caught one last glimpse of Ferguson's face, and sighed again at the very satisfied look upon it.

It was a short drive to Grosvenor Square and was easily covered, as Jeff expected. That was the last thing about the night that went as Jeff expected, however. Fraser himself answered the door, looking as distracted as Jeff had ever seen him look. Given that the man had presided over Lady Graham's drawing room with equanimity through multiple changes in government and several decades of wars, Jeff could not help but stare.

"You'll forgive us, sir, but my lady and the young miss--"

At that moment, they were joined in the hall by several young cavalry officers wearing the blue of the Horse Guards. They came hesitantly out of the library, looking a bit overawed by the house but asking for their horses, while at the same time a junior footman erupted precipitously through the door that led down to the kitchens, a look of terror on his face. Jeff waved Fraser off to deal with these new challenges, waiting patiently while he listened to the stammering message imparted by the young footman--that the signor in the kitchen understood that these were extraordinary times, but he was not used to having his creations ignored and he should be obliged if someone could convey to him a time when dinner might be needed. He would endeavor to have food up to my lady's standards at any time she might name, but for that he required such a time. _Pronto_. The footman stammered a bit at that, but Fraser steadied him by sending him off to alert the stables the officers' mounts would be needed momentarily.

He himself visibly steeled his courage to mount the stairs to the drawing room. Jeff intercepted him.

"Extraordinary times, eh?" Jeff asked, his hand on the banister, and Fraser forgot himself so much as to nod as though Jeff were an acquaintance.

"Most extraordinary, sir," he answered, with considerable feeling.

"I'll announce myself," Jeff said. "See if I can obtain a time for you."

"Very good, sir," Fraser said, not bothering to hide his relief, which was in itself an extraordinary event. "Thank you."

"Not at all," Jeff said, running quickly up the stairs. From the events in the hall--and knowing that dinner had yet to be served--he was expecting more than the quiet scene he encountered as he opened the drawing room door. It would not have surprised him to see half the cabinet ministers and the current Earl in the room--though he supposed that Fraser's elevated level of near-distress would have required no one less than Wellington or possibly the Prince Regent himself. Instead, there were but three people in the room: Lady Graham in her customary chair in front of the fire, Sophia on the settee, and yet another cavalry officer seated next to her. Jeff's eyes flickered over the empty sleeve doubled over and pinned to the left shoulder of his uniform.

"Jeffrey," Lady Graham said, in some surprise. "What do you here?"

"Almack's," Jeff answered, in a far more civil tone than he would have thought possible, given that he stood in front of her in full evening attire. She still wore her afternoon dress, as did Sophia, and more importantly, Sophia's face showed every inclination of a storm of weeping. She clung to the major's hand and blinked at Jeffrey several times before she sprang up off the couch with a gasp.

"Cousin, oh, and you are dressed so finely." She held firm to the major's hand still, even as he rose and bowed slightly. "I do so beg your pardon, but we are--" She broke off and stared at the major again, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Somewhat disordered," Lady Graham said, very dryly. "Good God, if you are here, dinner has completely gone by the wayside. I cannot believe that madman has not yet burned the house down around us for offering him such disrespect."

"Great-grandmama's chef," Sophia smiled through her tears as she explained to the major. "He is quite talented--you will never have the equal to his roast capon--but can be _very_ temperamental."

"Of course," the major answered, as if he were accustomed to threats of violence emanating from the kitchen. Then again, given the somewhat besotted air to his gaze, Jeff rather thought that Sophia could tell him day was night and he would answer with the same agreeable tone.

"I believe we are safe for the moment," Jeff said, arching an eyebrow at his grandmother. "But I have been charged by Fraser to determine a suitable time to pass along."

Jeff would never accuse Fraser of anything so undignified as listening at keyholes, but it was either that or the man had the hearing of a bat, because the double doors opened at that second and Fraser sailed in majestically.

"We are at your disposal," Lady Graham said, and Jeff would wager _those_ words were not heard often. "Please relay my sincere appreciation to Umberto for sacrificing his work to our happy drama this evening."

"Very good, my lady," Fraser answered and retreated with no small relief, if Jeff was any judge.

"Oh, heavens, my manners," Sophia said. "Cousin Jeffrey, please allow me to introduce Brigade-Major Lord Freeman." Jeff bowed slightly, still a trifle bemused that this one quiet man could completely disorder his grandmother's house. "Martin, my dear cousin, Mr. Jeffrey Morgan, who has been so very kind to me these last months."

"Major," Jeff said, putting all the pieces together. He bowed slightly. "We had thought you lost."

"Only conceive, Cousin," Sophia said, with a slight hoarseness that betrayed her emotion. "Martin was found by a Prussian doctor and cared for in their hospitals."

"My German being what it was, which is to say nonexistent, it was some time before I could manage a communication," the major said, with a small smile.

"I should imagine it was rather involved," Jeff replied, carefully keeping his knowledge of the general horror of a post-battlefield hospital out of his eyes. Sophia did not need to imagine it and the major would hardly need reminding.

"And when he did organize a letter, we did not receive it!" Sophia exclaimed. "Indeed, we did not--or, well, I did not," she added, her voice faltering as she turned to Lady Graham. "You do not think Papa…?"

"I find it tremendously difficult to believe Hubert could bestir himself from his books and sermons to find the post, let alone read a letter addressed to you and take steps to conceal it," Lady Graham said, dryly. "Put the thought from your mind, Sophia. It would not be the first time a letter from the Continent did not find its way home."

"You should not blame him if he did," Major Freeman said. "It would only be his duty toward you, especially with the news of my injuries that it carried. I cannot be what he would wish for you--it was foolish of me to come to you--"

" _Martin_ ," Sophia interrupted, in as quelling a voice as Jeff had ever heard from her. Indeed, he would not have been at all shocked to hear that very tone from his grandmother. To judge from the somewhat stunned expression on his face, it came as a great surprise to the major as well. "You have only just this day been returned to me; _pray_ do not vex me with such nonsense."

Before anyone could respond, the doors opened to Fraser's announcement that the young cavalry officers were departing and wished to have a word with the major. "Dinner," he added to Lady Graham, "will be served momentarily, my lady."

After extracting a promise from the major that he would indeed remain in Grosvenor Square for dinner and not take flight with his officers, Sophia drew Jeff aside.

"Cousin," Sophia said, in a quiet, serious voice. "I must beg a favor from you, though I am certain you should be very tired of me after this day." She smiled at him. "Well do I know your dislike of evening dress, and now you are here with no reason for it."

"I can, however, take myself off someplace with a decent cellar," Jeff said, and she smiled a little more brightly at him, even as she shook her head in mock dismay.

"I'm afraid I might interfere with that as well," Sophia said. "Mr. Ackles--Jensen--he was the one who found Martin for me. I sent him off with barely any explanation and then when he arrived with Martin--and his friends--in tow, I promptly succumbed to the most embarrassing hysterical outburst. I was so overcome, Lady Graham was contemplating a dose of laudanum to settle me."

"It was a great shock, I would imagine."

"Yes. Yes, it was--but what with all the weeping, I don't know what happened to Jensen, and--" She hesitated for a moment. "We hadn't quite come to an agreement, but I think that was very much on his mind, as it was on mine. Would you find him, and convey to him my deepest gratitude and ask him to call on me? Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"I--"

"Please assure him I quite understand if he never wishes to see me again," Sophia added earnestly.

"I'll see what I can do," Jeff answered. "I assume you were planning to meet this evening at the assembly." When she nodded, he added, "At the very least, I can look in there, since I'm properly attired."

"Not a complete waste of Ferguson's efforts," Sophia said, and leaned in to kiss him lightly. "Thank you, cousin."

Jeff took his hat from Fraser, who was looking somewhat refreshed, what with dinner being served and all further hysterics seemingly forestalled. He declined the offer of a footman being sent for a cab; weighing the options, he doubted Jensen had, after what must have been a highly dramatic afternoon, gone back to change for Almack's.

The footman who answered the door at the Cavendish Square house did not know where Mr. Ackles might have gone, but he did confirm that he'd left the house on foot, and not in formal evening wear, which eliminated Almack's at least. It still left dozens of possibilities, but Jeff had the devil's own luck, running him to ground at a hazard table at Watier's after only a brief stop at White's for dinner.

Jensen was playing with his customary attention, though Jeff knew perfectly well that Jensen had seen him approach the table. Jeff stood and watched for some few minutes, noticing the well-filled wine glass at Jensen's side and the attentiveness with which the waitstaff kept it in that state. Other than a slight flush, Jensen did not betray any sign of being the worse for wear, but Jeff would lay good money that he was at least a bottle down and showing no signs of slacking off.

"You're family; you'll have heard the news by now," Jensen said, draining his glass and gathering his winnings with an impatient sweep of a hand. He stood and hesitated briefly before heading to the back room, where play was deeper and the tone more serious. "Not that it matters much; I should think the _on dits_ will be flying by the morning promenade."

Jeff inclined his head and followed silently--there was nothing to be said; Jensen's assessment was quite unassailable. The gossip would indeed be flying by morning; little doubt of that.

"As I'm fairly certain I'm no longer the front-runner for your cousin's hand, I confess I'm unclear as to why you're here," Jensen said, with a reckless air.

"My cousin asked me to find you, to express her gratitude and to ask you to call on her tomorrow."

Jensen played silently for a while before saying, in a much subdued voice, "I cannot think that would be wise."

Jeff thought of Sophia's earnest face, still blotched from the kind of tears that would take hours to ease, and knew a flash of irritation followed swiftly by a deep disappointment. He played his own hand without comment, cashing out at the first opportunity.

"I hadn't thought you to be the kind who counted _coup_ on the Marriage Mart," Jeff said, his bloody temper getting the best of him yet again, for reasons he would not examine too closely. "It would appear that I was mistaken. My apologies." Jensen jerked his head up, eyes widening at the insult, then narrowing.

"If that is your opinion of me, perhaps it is just as well I did not offer for your cousin." Jensen spoke in a low tone, quiet enough that no one else at the table might hear his words, but the icy politeness in his voice could not be mistaken. "You may assure Lady Graham that your family has avoided an unfortunate entanglement with a fortune hunter."

Jeff did not know any of the other gentlemen at the table, but every one of them wore identical looks of avid interest as they waited for what might happen next. Jeff pushed away from the table and strode swiftly out of the room, out of the club, before he offered any greater insult.

Once on the street, out of the overly warm rooms of the club, Jeff took several calming breaths and decided he would look in at Mary-Louise's. It seemed a better plan than returning to his rooms. He would only brood if he did that, and Ferguson would offer little comfort. He had taken no more than a few steps back toward St. James Way, though, when he heard his name being called, and turned to see Jensen following him.

"I'll be certain to convey your regrets to my cousin." Jeff bit off each word with care. "She does, in fact, hold you in some regard; for her sake, I'll keep the explanation as simple as possible."

"I am quite fond of her, as well--" Jensen said.

"Apparently not enough to do her the courtesy of seeing her face-to-face," Jeff said, with some heat, and perhaps it was time to be honest and admit, if only to himself, that he was less concerned for the slight done to Sophia and more done in by his disappointment in his own mis-estimation of the other man's character. "Or is it that you are so overcome by your love--" Jeff pretended not to notice Jensen's minuscule flinch at the savage sarcasm in his own voice--"that you are unable to face your loss."

Jeff had thought Jensen to be intelligent and as unaffected by the circumstances of his birth and family as was possible, but he could not see any reason for the refusal to call upon Sophia other than the sting of a petty, wounded pride.

"Don't you mean to ask whether I'm so overcome by the loss of your cousin's money that I must go and sulk?" Jensen snapped. Here on the street he did not bother to modulate his voice or his tone, and Jeff was taken aback by the passion directed toward him. He was used to cool and collected from Jensen, and indeed had often wondered if there was anything more under the surface calm. It was, to be sure, not the most discreet location in terms of discovering that yes, there was quite something more. Heads were turning as the gentlemen of the _ton_ made their way to the gaming club, but it would not be the first time Jeff had been part of a public scene, even if it had been quite some time since it had last happened in London.

"Well?" Jeff asked. "Is that what it is?" He was rather sure that it was not. Sophia did possess a rather handsome annuity, but there were any number of girls this season who had more, and whose families would be delighted to underwrite the Black Earl's debts in exchange for an alliance with even a second son.

Before Jeff could receive an answer, he was hailed yet again, and turned to find none other than Sir Robert Phillip regarding him--and Jensen--with some level of distaste. Robert had ever valued a handsome public face. Jeff could hardly suppose a career in the diplomatic circle should have changed that.

"You will excuse my interruption," Robert said, "but I sent a note to your lodgings earlier and as it is a matter of some importance I--"

"Felt it necessary to interrupt a private conversation?" Jensen drawled, every inch the son of an ancient peerage addressing a new-made, and rather insignificant, baron. Robert flushed at being taken to task, and Jeff reflected upon how, for someone who so publicly valued good manners and breeding, he did not scruple to disregard them when it suited his purpose.

"I assure you--" Robert began, but Jensen cut him off once again.

"I assure _you_ , that private conversations can indeed take place in public places, and that you are, most definitely, interrupting one." Robert's face suffused darker, a heavy, mottled choler that Jeff was certain he had caused to be seen a time or two on his uncle's face. Before Robert could regain command over his voice, Jensen added, with a perfect, indifferent calm, "But since your business is with Mr. Morgan, we should defer to his assessment of the relative importance of your interruption."

He turned to Jeff, arching one eyebrow inquisitively, and Jeff knew a sudden impulse to laugh, though whether it was for the notion that he'd needed rescuing or for the fact that Jensen had, indeed, rescued him, he could not say. He looked past Jensen to Robert, seeing as if for the first time the needy, grasping mask to his face.

"We've had this conversation, sir," Jeff said. "I find that I am no longer convinced of my necessity to England's causes, and will have to decline your offer."

"Sir!" Robert sputtered, going so far as to grasp Jeff's forearm and pull him a step or two down the walk. "Jeffrey--I know that your family does not fully apprehend all that you have done, nor appreciate your service, but should I schedule an appointment with the Earl--"

Jeff did laugh, then. "My uncle is most appalling full of his own consequence. I doubt you could get an appointment with him in the next year."

"Then perhaps Lady--"

"My grandmother already knows," Jeff said, with a smile that was pure delight in the face of Robert's patent disbelief. "She informs me that she stands on no ceremony with Lord Castlereagh, but were I you, I should look to see who in your office might not be as dedicated to your policy of secrecy as you would wish."

Jeff took a step back, pulling his arm free and straightening his jacket. "It hasn't been about the family for quite some time now, Robert. Bonaparte is done. So am I. And to satisfy all questions, you were, indeed, interrupting a private conversation."

Turning his back on Robert felt far more significant than walking down St. James Street, and his voice was not quite smooth as he informed Jensen, "I had a vague plan to look in on Mary-Louise, should you care to continue our conversation there."

"Mrs. Parker's it is," Jensen said, and they made their way quietly toward St. James Way.


	4. Chapter 4

It came as no surprise to Jensen that Mrs. Parker maintained private rooms for favored patrons. Nor was it in any fashion a shock that Jeff was one of those favored patrons. Jensen would admit to some envy that a few words brought out brandy the likes of which hadn't been seen in London in Jensen's lifetime, and again that the chef appeared to personally discuss what he might serve them, but he felt those were events worthy of at least a small frisson of base emotion.

Once the brandy was decanted and served, and the waiters finished laying a small table in front of the room's fireplace and withdrew, leaving them in privacy, Jensen said, "I should beg your pardon for my heavy-handed interference earlier. I found quite suddenly that I was appallingly tired of Sir Robert Phillip and the demands he feels free to make upon your time, but it is of course not any of my concern."

Jeff laughed softly, but there was as much bitterness as humor in the sound. "I'm not certain why it took me so long as it did, but I'll wager I'm equally tired of his demands."

Jensen stretched his legs in front of the fire and watched the light of the flames dance on the brandy in the glass he held, unsure of what precisely they were doing here in this quiet room.

"I should also beg your pardon for the insult implied by my behavior toward your cousin," Jensen said. "Truly, I am--"

"No," Jeff said quietly. "I had no call to accuse you as I did. She herself most strictly bade me to tell you she understood if you had no wish to speak with her. She would know far better than I if your affections were engaged."

"No," Jensen admitted. "I have grown very fond of her, and I dare say she of me, but I do not believe anyone's affections were engaged."

Jeff did not say anything, but he watched Jensen steadily, and Jensen found it easier than he had imagined to offer an explanation. "It was not that I had lost her, it was that I had contemplated going to her and telling her I had failed in seeking out the major and making official the understanding we had reached before she knew any different."

"Obviously, you did not," Jeff said.

"No, but seeing her receive the major--the strength of her emotion, and the knowledge that I had thought to deceive her--I believed it best not to see her again. But that, of course, was nothing but my own guilt and convenience."

"My cousin," Jeff said, "was deliriously happy when I took my leave of her. Whatever temptation you might have had, you did nothing but bring her joy by your actions. Whether or not you see her again is entirely at your discretion."

The waiters returned at that moment, bringing in an assortment of the chef's creations; Jensen seized gratefully upon the interruption. He thought Jeff did, as well; in any case, the beef was tender and delicious, sauced quite perfectly to go with the brandy, and the accompaniments were equally distracting, so that a relative ease had fallen between them when Jeff cleared his throat.

"You may have guessed that there was as much personal as business between Robert and I," he began.

"I had," Jensen said simply. "You'll forgive my speculation, but his dislike of my riding Melete seemed to go beyond that which could easily be explained absent some... warm emotion."

Jeff didn't answer for a long time, finally nodding and saying, "You can name it jealousy, and there was a time when that might have mattered, but the personal between us is long since history. It's unfortunate that the business has always been entwined with that." He took a breath. "If I were to be brutally honest, I should say that the business was what drove the personal, at least on his side."

"Jeff--" Jensen started to say, but Jeff held up his hand and Jensen subsided.

"You know," Jeff said slowly. "I don't think there is any one person who knows the full story. I'm not sure if I'm ready to tell it, but I should think some of it might be obvious."

"Sir Robert works for the Foreign Office, for Lord Castlereagh," Jensen said slowly. "And you, you have lived abroad for …?"

"Twenty years," Jeff answered.

"You're known to travel and, at least on the surface, care little for what happens to England or her armies, but … that is not strictly true, is it?"

"It was a game, when he first approached me," Jeff said. "I had spent time in a half-dozen cities; I had a reputation such that I could move from country to country without anyone the wiser. I heard things, sought out information. Robert made use of what I heard."

There was more that he wasn't saying; Jensen was sure of it, but he said nothing, allowed Jeff to tell it as he wished.

"I was paid for anything I heard," Jeff said, his tone faintly mocking. "Don't think I did it out of the goodness of my heart, out of some misplaced sense of pride in England." He crossed his arms in front of him, stared into the fire. "And there were other, more personal reasons."

"At first," Jensen said, more sharply than he intended. Jeff jerked his head up, though, his absorption in the flames--and his thoughts--broken, and Jensen could not bring himself to rue his less-than-politic tone. "You said it was a game, but only at first."

"Then Bonaparte rose to power and I did it not for Robert or for anything he pretended he would give me, but to put a stop to the spread of the empire. "

Jensen wanted very much to know what Sir Robert had promised Jeff, but again he resolved to allow Jeff to speak as he saw fit.

"And now?" Jensen asked.

"Now I have a house, and a little land," Jeff said. "Now I can visit Vienna for the opera, instead of for the rumors. I can travel... wherever I might want."

Jensen nodded; even had he not felt much the same desire to see places beyond his life's thus-far-limited scope, he could hear the yearning in the other man's voice. They sat quietly for some minutes and Jensen knew he should leave well enough alone, but something deep within him called to know more. It was as though the other man was an enigma, one that it was vitally important for Jensen to understand, and he heard himself saying, "Sir Robert's jealousy--it can't be denied, but that's on his part. It doesn't mean there was in truth anything for him to be responding to, except I cannot help but think..."

Jeff stood abruptly and crossed to the small sideboard to pour himself another brandy. He did not meet Jensen's eyes as he spoke. "Robert was ever skilled at reading my moods. It made it that much easier to gain what he wanted."

The level of self-loathing in Jeff's voice propelled Jensen out of his own chair and across the room, and he understood suddenly that it was not so much Jeff he had been looking to comprehend, but himself as well, and that so many pieces of the whole were now falling into shape.

"He sadly miscalculated this time," Jensen said, pleased at how steady his voice sounded, no matter how hectic his heartbeat. He could see everything he meant to do playing out in his mind's eye, even as he wondered at his own daring in taking these first steps. "Unless he wished to gain _this_."

Jensen took the glass from Jeff's hand, moving with deliberation. Jeff made no move to stop him, not even as he drew Jeff's head down so that he could press their mouths together. He was aware of the enormous possibility of disaster looming around his actions, but that voice inside him insisted this was necessary, and worth risking much to accomplish, even as another part of him knew nothing but trust in Jeff's own actions toward him.

At first, Jeff was simply still against him, but before Jensen could think that this would prove to be the time he shouldn't have heeded that voice, Jeff sighed into his mouth, his arms coming up to draw Jensen closer, and Jensen stopped thinking. Jeff took control of the kiss, but carefully, deepening it slowly, tasting Jensen with exquisite thoroughness, until Jensen could not help but shudder against him. When at last they broke the kiss, both of them breathless, Jeff's eyes were all but black, and his face was flushed. Jensen knew a savage satisfaction at provoking such a response, but then Jeff's mouth came down on his once more, and he turned his attention to more pressing matters.

The kiss was less sophisticated this time, as though Jeff had seen the wildness Jensen couldn't keep completely submerged, and wanted more of it. Jensen met him with equal intensity, sliding his fingers into the hair at the base of Jeff's neck and holding him close. Jeff made a low, desperate noise deep in his throat and took Jensen's mouth as though he had no intention of ever relinquishing it. Indeed, Jensen had no intention of allowing him to do so, at least not until there was a discreet knock at the door and Jensen found himself standing alone, his heart pounding and his breath caught somewhere in his chest. Jeff had half-turned toward the door, but Jensen could see that he was as affected as Jensen.

The servants in Mrs. Parker's establishment were extraordinarily well-trained; no one entered the room until they were bid, and once inside, there was not the slightest indication of familiarity. The table was cleared, and Jeff consulted as to whether the decanter of brandy should be removed, and then the two of them were alone again, and Jensen had no idea how to proceed.

"Perhaps we should end the evening," Jeff said, after some few moments of silence. He sounded calm and steady, as though that small sound that had fired Jensen's blood had been nothing but Jensen's imagination.

Jensen swallowed hard and endeavored to keep his voice equally steady. "Perhaps we should."

It felt to be the coward's way out, to allow Jeff to usher him from the private room, and then to allow him to be swept off by Mrs. Parker while a footman hailed Jensen a hackney, but Jensen could not think how else to proceed. He hesitated at the front door, for it was not how he wanted the evening to end, but he heard Jeff's quiet laugh from the other room, and as a cab had pulled up, decided it would be better to continue on his way and try to make sense of everything that had happened before he tried to address it with Jeff.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

  


Mary-Louise was not at all taken in by Jeff's pretense at calm, but she played along with it. As it was a lively night at the tables, Jeff thought it was perhaps more accurate to say that she ignored him and his mood and spent her energy as she should, at making her livelihood as secure as possible. Given the complete confusion of his thoughts, his taking the bank at the faro table was not the best of notions, but he somehow managed not to bankrupt his account before he managed to extricate himself from the position and consider his next move. It was still somewhat early; Ferguson would not be expecting him for some few hours yet.

"I'm sure it's quite safe to leave," Mary-Louise said, appearing silently at Jeff's elbow as he hesitated in the hall. "Mr. Ackles does not strike me as the type to hover just out of sight, ready and waiting to waylay innocent travelers."

When Jeff could not even summon the presence of mind to glare, she took some pity on him, reaching up to stroke the back of her hand across his face. Her words were, nevertheless, brisk and to the point. "Whatever it is, my love, you're far better off seeking it out. We both know what disasters come about otherwise."

She sent him off then, and if Jeff felt like little more than a tiresome schoolboy to be dealt with, he supposed that wasn't all so far from the truth. He was most certainly acting like one, and over nothing more than a kiss, which, while it might have been unexpected, was not--could not be--anything, really. The streets were quiet, dark between the streetlights, and grown familiar enough over the last weeks that Jeff could allow himself to wander while deep in thought.

Whatever might have happened, whatever intimacies he might have shared on this evening, Jeff reminded himself that he could not lose sight of the cold, sober facts of the matter. Jensen had come to town to marry, and to marry an heiress. He had his duty before him, and Jeff knew him well enough to know that he would discharge that duty honorably. And while Jeff was reacquainting himself with the realities of life, he might also remember that no matter how eager Jeff himself might have been for those intimacies, his desires were not of paramount importance.

He would not let himself repeat the mistakes of his youth.

He looked up from his wanderings to find that he had led himself to Grosvenor Square, and was coming up to the entrance to his grandmother's house. At the very least, he decided, he could leave word with Sophia that he had executed his commission for her. Though the hour was late, Fraser opened the door before Jeff could reach for the bell, as if he had been keeping watch for visitors.

"Her ladyship is in the Blue Saloon," he informed Jeff. "Or did you wish to speak with the young miss?"

"No, don't disturb either of them," Jeff said--with some cowardice, he admitted. "I can accomplish my mission by means of a note."

"Very good, sir," Fraser said, as if there were nothing at all odd about a cousin of the house declining to pay his respects to the mistress. He showed Jeff into the library with no sign of the agitation that had marked his carriage earlier in the evening. Indeed, there was not so much as an extra crease in his coat, nor a hair disordered. Jeff rather thought Fraser would be in rare perfection for quite some time to come in order to make amends for what Jeff was certain he felt had been a sorry lack of presence previously. He ensured Jeff had paper and ink, and withdrew, leaving Jeff to pen a brief note, assuring Sophia that Jensen was quite fine and would be calling on her shortly.

His own duty thus discharged, Jeff left the note with Fraser and very nearly made his escape, being halfway to the front door when his grandmother called to him from the staircase landing.

"Good God, Jeffrey, what do you, sneaking about my house at this time of the night?"

"It's not so late," Jeff pointed out, turning and looking up at her. Fraser, he noted, had silently withdrawn. Jeff sorely longed to follow. "Had we attended the assembly tonight we shouldn't be in for nearly an hour."

"Yes, well, we didn't." She still wore her afternoon dress, and held a small crystal glass in her hand. "Come upstairs and join me. Fraser prepares a fine orgeat, but I suppose you'll do fine with just the brandy."

She turned and swept back up the rest of the stairs to the first floor, leaving Jeff to follow. The Blue Saloon was a small, comfortably furnished room at the front of the house. By day, it would afford a fine view of the square from the small table placed in front of the windows; it was clearly the room where Lady Graham wrote her letters and took tea if there were no callers, a personal rather than public room of the house, the walls hung with family portraits and, to Jeff's mild shock, several of the watercolors he himself had done over the years.

Lady Graham seated herself in front of the small fire; at her wave, he poured himself a small brandy and refreshed her glass from the decanter Fraser had obviously used to mix her favorite drink. He declined the implicit offer to take the second chair, and instead moved restlessly about the room.

"Do stop prowling," Lady Graham said after a bit. "Is there a particular reason for your perturbation this evening?"

"I think it is time I returned home," Jeff said abruptly. "I assume you have no further need of my services--Sophia is well-settled with her major, is she not?"

"She is," Lady Graham said. "Even if I could conceive of Hubert rousing himself from his books long enough to object in any sort of constructive fashion, she will not be denied this, she has already told me as much. I should imagine the banns will be read beginning this Sunday and they'll be married before the month is out."

"You sound well-satisfied with that," Jeff said.

"Why should I not be? Oh, yes, she could have married any one of a number of fine families, but this will suit her well. It will suit the both of them well, if the display of emotion shown this afternoon is any indication." She sipped at her glass. "Don't look at me as though I should rather she marry for connection alone. I am perfectly able to approve of marriage for other reasons; I did so quite happily for your parents."

The mention of his parents gave Jeff some pause; having died while he was still in school, they were not often the topic of conversation.

"I will confess that your mother was quite my favorite," Lady Graham said. "She had spirit, and intelligence, and was quite handsome, if not in the fashion of the time. You have much of her in you, and were she still with us, I have no doubt my son Graham would have received a tongue-lashing he'd yet be cowering from over the nonsense that sent you to the Continent in the first place." She eyed Jeff severely as he--there was no other word for it--boggled at her. "As for the rest of it, I find I am quite weary of these constant rumors that seem to circulate about you."

"Ma'am--" Jeff began, but she fixed him with a stern look and he subsided.

"I am not a fool, Jeffrey," she said. "My drawing room hosted more than one rout that was little more than an excuse for the Foreign Office to meet with their contacts in an unremarkable manner; I perfectly understand that rumors of the sort that always seem to swirl about you are vital in making your work possible, but I am also of the opinion that this is no longer something in which you are engaged."

Again, Jeff could only stare, but as she sighed and all but tapped her foot in impatience, he made a herculean effort to collect himself. "You are not wrong, ma'am," he said. "Though I am quite certain I don't wish to know how you know what you do," he muttered.

"Very well, then," Lady Graham said. "I shall have a word or two with Castlereagh. Obviously, it does not need to become public knowledge exactly _what_ you have been engaged in these last ten years, but the right people can certainly hear the right rumors and put the pieces together."

"I--thank you?"

"Quite possibly, you might show your gratitude by spending a bit more time in this country," Lady Graham said. "That thief of a valet would do well in the northern estates."

"Of course, ma'am," Jeff said, resolutely not thinking of all that had happened during the evening, and how none of it made him in the least inclined to spend a minute more than he had to in England.

"See that it does not end here," Lady Graham said. She stood with a sigh, and accepted Jeff's arm as they left the room. "Please tell Fraser I shall retire for the evening." She hesitated at the top of the stairs, speaking without turning around. "I fear you have lost your way, Jeffrey. Not because of whatever ridiculous scandal you've been led to believe embarrassed the family, but because I used to see passion in you, and now..."

"It has been a long war, ma'am," Jeff said, not entirely untruthfully.

"It has, but it is well and over and I should like to see you alive again." She looked at him then, one swift glance that he could not read, and then made her way down the hall to her rooms. Jeff walked wearily down the steps and bade Fraser a good night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jensen had barely breakfasted the next morning when there was a commotion in the front hall and he came out of the morning room to find Taylor supervising both footmen in the unloading of a welter of trunks and portmanteaus, and his younger sister descending from a much muddied and travel-stained coach.

"Jen!" she called, flying up the front steps to cast herself into his arms in an exuberant hug.

"Margaret?" Jensen tried not to sound completely bewildered, but it had been a very long, and for the most part sleepless, night, and he was not at his most astute early in the morning. "What are you doing here?"

"You write the most appallingly lacking letters, dearest, but Danneel has kept me abreast of all your doings and I came to see Miss Bush, for Danneel says she believes her to be your choice and I would meet her before she is my sister."

"Meg," Jensen groaned. "Good God, tell me you did not come from Devonshire _alone_?"

"Of course not," Margaret said indignantly. "I am not such a gaby as that! I have dear Miss Somerset with me, and Kane rode atop the coach with a pistol in his pocket for our protection. Oh! Miss Somerset!" She turned and hurried back down to the carriage, calling over her shoulder, "She could not sleep well in the carriage, poor thing, but she did not feel it proper for us to spend the night in an inn, so she is quite undone."

"I have set the maids to making up rooms for Lady Margaret and Miss Somerset," Taylor said before Jensen could so much as open his mouth. "Might I inquire as to whether we should expect his lordship as well?"

"I somehow doubt Lady Margaret received his blessing before she left, so, yes, I'd say that we should be expecting my brother shortly," Jensen said, with a sigh, and went to assist a nearly prostrate with exhaustion Miss Somerset from the carriage and consult with Kane on how long it had taken them to make the journey, trying to determine if it was worth sending John the footman back to Richardson Hall with news of the safe arrival or whether he would merely cross Joshua on the road.

"I left a very clear letter, in my very best handwriting," Margaret protested. "I do not see why Joshua should feel the need to follow me!"

"I'm so very sorry, sir," Miss Somerset said as Jensen insisted she take a seat in front of the small fire. "I begged Lady Margaret to consider her actions a trifle more carefully, but when she declared herself ready to journey alone, I thought it more prudent to accompany her."

"No, no, of course it is not your fault," Jensen soothed, shooting Margaret a glare that she blithely ignored. "I will wager it was you who called Kane, as well, which was most sensible of you." Taylor arrived with tea and toast, with which everyone fortified themselves until the rooms were declared ready and Miss Somerset tottered off to collapse. Margaret, meanwhile, caught Jensen by the arm and sweetly suggested that he could take her riding with him.

"I have an engagement in the City, one that I cannot break," Jensen sighed. His weekly meeting with Kripke had resulted in several fine opportunities; Jensen could reschedule, of course, but time was often of the essence in such matters and he did not wish to miss out if he could help it. "No," he added, fixing his sister with as stern of a stare as possible. "You may not ride out accompanied only by a groom."

"Pffft," Margaret said. "As though Hyde Park were any challenge."

She did not exaggerate: she was a fine rider, a natural horsewoman, but it was still not at all open for discussion and Jensen knew his sister well enough to know that would not mean a thing to her.

"Perhaps you could spend the morning with Danneel," Jensen suggested, and was immediately rewarded with yet another enthusiastic embrace. He sent Margaret off to make herself presentable and made arrangements for a footman to deliver a note to the Ross townhouse asking if it would be acceptable for Margaret to spend the morning. Danneel wrote an immediate invitation, and all was well until Jensen remembered the reason for Margaret's journey in the first place.

"Meg," he said, as they walked the neat streets between Cavendish and Berkeley Squares. "It will soon be all over town, but Miss Bush and I--we will not be marrying."

Jensen wasn't sure of what reaction he might have been expecting but it was certainly not for Margaret to nod thoughtfully and take his arm, saying, "Well, Danneel writes that she is quite lovely and all that is amiable, but... I could not see any sign that she thought the two of you in love. That is why I came, to see for myself before you made an offer and persuade you not to sacrifice yourself."

Fortunately, they had arrived at Berkeley Square, so Jensen did not have to weather a storm of questions--it was more on the scale of a small squall--and Margaret, overcome by the magnificence of Ross's townhouse, managed to behave with decorum as they were shown into the drawing room to wait for Danneel.

"Are you certain it will be all right for me to spend the morning?" Margaret whispered, as she caught sight of the portrait of Danneel in the Grecian ruins. "She is not otherwise engaged?"

"Of course I am not engaged," Danneel said, coming into the room in a flutter of iced pomona green lawn, the Ross pearls as usual at her ears and wrists. "And I should have canceled anything that I might have had, dearest." She embraced Margaret warmly, and Jensen almost missed the brittle edge to her manners. She caught him looking at her, and shook her head very slightly before turning back to Margaret and rushing on. "Good heavens, look at how lovely you've grown--you are going to have them all fighting to the death over a dance with you very shortly."

Margaret relaxed under the familiar attention, and did not seem to notice anything amiss. Jensen stayed long enough to hear plans of a small shopping excursion before taking his leave, Baines showing him to the front door.

"Mr. Ackles," Lord Ross called as he descended the grand staircase into the front hall. "By God, is it not enough that I must hear how delightful it was that you escorted my wife to all and sundry, now I must need see you in my own house before the sun is barely risen?"

His voice was bitter and rancorous, his handsome face marred by the sullen twist to his lips. Jensen knew a certain impatient irritation with the man, who had so much and could not seem to find happiness in it, but he attempted to keep his own voice temperate. "It is early, my lord, to be sure, but my sister visits unexpectedly from Devonshire. As she is very fond of Lady Ross, and Lady Ross my sister, the morning, before any engagements, seemed an excellent time for a call."

Jensen was rewarded for his calm tone by the very aggravation that swept over Ross's features at it. The satisfaction Jensen felt at seeing that deserved an entire Sunday lesson dedicated to its wickedness, and was not at all helped by twin peals of laughter from the drawing room--one clearly that of a young girl, the other easily recognizable as Danneel's--and the sudden abashment in Ross's eyes. It was that embarrassment and its perfect betrayal of Ross's true belief that goaded Jensen into adding, "As for my escorting your wife, I should imagine that would be easily remedied by your own simple presence. Since that would appear to be more exertion than you wish to expend, I can only conclude this entire exercise little more than a Cheltenham drama more worthy of my still-in-the-schoolroom sister than a peer of the realm."

An angry flush reddened the older man's face; his jaw clenched so tight Jensen very nearly could hear his teeth grind together.

"Have a care, sir," Ross ground out as he came down the stairs to stand in front of Jensen, "or you shall be hearing from my second."

"I should be delighted," Jensen snapped in return. "As should any gentleman--" he drew the word out and eyed Ross contemptuously-- "whose sister, be she that only in affection rather than blood, were so insulted."

Ross was ready to answer, Jensen could see it, and marveled a bit at how uncaring he himself was to be facing a challenge, but as he drew breath the door to the drawing room opened, Danneel and Margaret spilling out, still very near to helpless with laughter. It did nothing for Jensen's temper to realize it was as happy as he had seen Danneel in the entirety of his time in town.

"Jensen--we had thought you long since off to your City appointment," Danneel said. "Have a care or we shall kidnap you along with us while we refresh Margaret's ribbons and..." Her voice trailed off as she took in the full import of the scene before her. "What is wrong?"

"Lord Ross is unhappy with the time we spend together," Jensen said, arching an eyebrow at Ross.

Danneel paused for the briefest of moments, but long enough for the light to fade from her face, and it was Jensen's turn to grind his teeth. Before he could say anything, she shrugged lightly and continued on her way toward the staircase.

"How very dog-in-the-manger of you, Ross," she said, affecting carelessness. "I should think you might be happy. After all, you insist your possessions be displayed to their best, and we were often told how striking a couple we made, were we not, Jen? Perhaps we should have listened to everyone and married. We didn't," she said, turning her head to smile at her husband, her smile edged with a bitter mocking, "because as dearly as we love each other, we agreed there could hardly be two people more likely to make each other miserable if forced together."

Struck dumb by the desperate unhappiness in her voice, Jensen could only stand as she gathered her skirts to ascend the staircase. "I wish you will not give another second's thought to it, Jen. Lord Ross has his pretty ornament, and I--" Her voice faltered a second. "I--"

"Danneel," Ross said, and Jensen was at least somewhat satisfied that he looked as thunderstruck as Jensen felt. "I--"

"It is of no matter, Douglas," Danneel said, her voice regaining its strength. Looking at Jensen, she added, "After all, it is a very good match that I made."

She swept by them, calling to Margaret, who stood round-eyed and open-mouthed at the door to the drawing room. "Come, Meg--we shall call for my dresser and see what bits I have that are more suited to your coloring than mine before we try the shops."

She waited on the landing until Margaret skittered past them, sketching a quick curtsy to Lord Ross and pressing her hand to Jensen's in passing. Jensen held himself perfectly still, the anger building inside him, until they disappeared along the upstairs hall and he heard a door close in the distance.

When he brought his gaze back to Ross, though, not hiding his emotions in the least, the marquess only held up his hand and shook his head.

"No, no, you are quite right in your fury, but I swear that is not how it is--how could she think I--" He closed his mouth with a near-audible snap and shook his head again. "I should go to her, should I not?"

He looked to Jensen with more uncertainty than Jensen should have believed possible. It alleviated some of the irritation Jensen felt with him, but that was a deep well, and not one he was likely to ascend from soon. Before Jensen could marshal the energy to answer with at least a pretense of civility, Ross answered his own question.

"No, no, I shouldn't." He ran his hands through his hair, disordering the perfectly arranged waves to the point where Jensen would not have been surprised to hear later that his valet had wept at the sight. "Words are not what's needed here, and neither, I'll be bound, are overwrought and lavish gifts as gestures."

He paced in quick, agitated strides up and down the entry, pausing in front of Jensen as though surprised to find himself not alone. "I should also beg your pardon. I've been appallingly rude, on more than one occasion. I can only offer the explanation that the rapport you share with my wife was the most pointed of reminders of everything I had thought to have and did not."

"It is a friendship born of a thousand of Danneel's ill-advised schemes, and nothing more," Jensen said. He could not quite bring himself to be truly cordial--which was not lost on Ross--but he did manage civility.

"Yes," Ross said, quietly. "Yes, of course--I told myself that, and that whatever else, I could trust Danneel not to be playing me false, but... you are very easy with each other and each reminder made me suffer that I could not find a path to the same."

"She would welcome it," Jensen said, with equal quiet. "She would not have accepted your offer if she did not desire your attentions, no matter what title came with it."

Ross nodded thoughtfully, lost in reverie. Jensen prepared to take his leave; before he could do so, a footman appeared, announcing that the grays were ready, and Ross said, "You had an appointment in the City, I believe? Might I offer you a ride?" He smiled--quite possibly the first genuine smile Jensen had seen from him, if a bit rueful and abashed--and added, "Feel free to send me to the devil."

Jensen remained severely tempted to do just that, but he was late, and Lord Ross's grays would make the trip into the City with far greater speed, not to mention comfort, than any hack Jensen might summon. He was prepared for awkward silence, but traffic was heavy enough that Ross had no attention to spare on idle talk. It was not until Jensen was about to step down in front of Kripke's offices that Ross spoke.

"I must beg of you one more favor." The horses fretted at holding; the groom jumped down and went to their heads, simultaneously calming them and leaving the way clear for a more private conversation, which Jensen had no doubt had been Ross's intention, especially when he added, "As it is in Danneel's best interests, I hope you will not reject me out of hand." He paused long enough for Jensen to nod in agreement. "You attend Lady Jersey's ball tonight--I would ask that you not cut me. If we are seen to be on amiable terms, it will alleviate some of the talk my ill-humor has already fueled."

Jensen did not answer as he stepped down from the phaeton, but once on the street, looked carefully at Ross who returned it with as open a countenance as Jensen had seen on him yet. "For Danneel, my lord," Jensen said eventually, stepping back to allow the groom to remount. Ross let the grays go, and Jensen turned to attend to business.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Ferguson took the news of Jeff's desire to depart London with an arched eyebrow and such a bland countenance that Jeff very nearly cracked and invited his opinion, just to avoid what he knew would be weeks of unspoken amusement at his own expense before Ferguson deemed he had suffered long enough and told him in no uncertain terms how much of a dolt he was. Jeff endured a full day and night of it before he sought refuge with Jeremy.

"I'd say I had no idea why you put up with the insolence," Jeremy said, when he apprised himself of the situation, "but between his size and the knife in his boot, I should think he's been more than useful over the years."

Jeff had once, nearly a half-dozen years earlier and deep in his cups, let slip the smallest of intimations of his occupations. Jeremy had seized upon it, and quietly and carefully put together enough pieces of the true story to stun Jeff with it the following year. _Kept me quite entertained, sorting out what I knew of your whereabouts and what Castlereagh's people were up to at the same time. Nearly gave m'father a convulsion, seeing me read the paper. Worth every bit of time I put in it right there._

They did not speak of it, not once Jeremy saw the truth of it in Jeff's eyes, but it was something, knowing that at least someone other than Ferguson knew what Jeff was about. As it was also a premonishment of how even the slightest hint could be his unraveling, Jeff had redoubled his efforts to deflect notice from his activities, taking the greatest care to only expose those parts of his life that would support the impression of the rakehell lost son of the family, interested in little more than horses and whatever game of chance might cross his path.

No one, not even Ferguson, knew of the accounts that held the monies Jeff had accrued over the years, payments for the information he collected. Ferguson had his own stockpiles, of course; half of everything Jeff had received since the day he'd insinuated himself into Jeff's life, but no one was better at keeping his cash at the ready and asking no questions than a man who'd carved a life from grim beginnings on the mean streets of Edinburgh out of little more than his wits and having nothing left to fear.

There was little Jeff could say to answer Jeremy, not least because they were seated in a fashionable coffeehouse with tables set convivially close together. He settled for raising an eyebrow in agreement; it was true enough that Ferguson had proven himself indispensable a dozen times over. He was as quick with his fists as Jeff was himself, and if Jeff was a better shot, Ferguson had few qualms about using the knife in his boot to its best advantage. The fact that he could play a bang-on imitation of a gentleman's gentleman added a special touch that Jeff tried very hard not to think about, for fear of inciting a paradox of Euclidean proportions and the headache to go along with it.

"So he's not approving of this removal to Italy, eh?" Jeremy eyed Jeff with some amusement. "I should imagine he has his reasons."

"I should imagine he does," Jeff said, a trifle testy at the undertone to Jeremy's words, the one that implied Jeremy not only knew Ferguson's reasons, but heartily agreed with them.

Jeremy kept his silence on the topic after that, turning the conversation to the latest _on dits_ , touching lightly upon the subject of Sophia and Major Freeman--"By God, Jeff, the ladies are swooning at the romance of it all"-- before dwelling with a touch more indecorous amusement at the apparent rapprochement between Lord and Lady Ross.

"Not one waltz was struck up that Ross did not claim for his own with his lovely marchioness, not _one_ , Jeffrey, and he made a point of especial civility toward Ackles in between, so that I must consider what additional arrangements might have been made."

With any other person, Jeremy would have affected an enthrallment at the possibilities; with Jeff, he merely arched an eyebrow and grinned lazily, as though he knew how ridiculous Jeff found his gossip. Not the facts--Jeff knew Jeremy was top-notch at finding every detail--but that was only half the entertainment value.

At Jeff's less than agreeable expression--and what Jeremy might make of that, Jeff did not want to think, other than to hope that he was not happy that someone so recently attached to his own cousin might be a part of a less savory "arrangement"--Jeremy shifted to a digression on fisticuffs, a soothing if bland stream of gossip and boxing cant that filled the jagged edges of things unsaid. It was not until after they'd paid their tab and taken their leave, making their way toward Jeff's rooms, the bustle of the streets effectively rendering their conversation private, that Jeremy said, "Italy is all well and good, and I can conceive that you must miss it, but have a care you're not confusing what's gone before with what is now."

With that singularly unhelpful comment he took his leave of Jeff, declaring he was promised to accompany his mother in calling on a vapid old aunt and he'd be sure to let Jeff know if he survived the obligation. Jeff stood in front of the tall, narrow house where he'd been taking rooms since his first return to London and debated his options. Ferguson would be in full leave-taking mode, tearing through all the bits and pieces they'd managed to accumulate in a few months in an effort to organize before packing. Jeff should, by rights, be making his own arrangements, finding buyers for the horses he'd not be bringing back to Italy with him, and settling outstanding accounts with sundry tradesmen. Instead, he found himself taking the short walk to Cavendish Square. He had not the slightest idea of what he might say, except that possibly Jeremy had spoken the truth, and the past with Robert was not the present.

Even with Jeremy's lazy surety ringing in his ears, Jeff could not entirely believe himself to be so fortunate. Jensen had had an entire day to think through his actions; that Jeff had not heard from him began to take on a less benign countenance than Jeff had previously been able to cast upon it. Despite his increasing sureness he continued on, not pausing until he rounded the final corner and beheld a flurry of activity in front of Jensen's house.

A muddy and travel-stained coach-and-four stood in front of the gate, the horses well-blown and equally muddy, and there was much commotion as the front door opened and a young girl, still in the schoolroom to judge from the flying hair and skirts, came tearing past footmen and butler to greet the neatly dressed country gentleman descending from the coach. Her demeanor was equal parts welcome and remonstration and was returned in like. Jensen followed at a slightly more sedate pace, but still clearly welcoming; and even from across the square Jeff could see the family resemblance.

Jeff could not deny how clear the affection was between the three; even with the scolding being administered, there was much laughter and teasing. Jeff stood on the corner and forced himself to acknowledge that whether or not Jensen regretted the intimacies he'd initiated with Jeff, he had come to London to find a wealthy wife, and for reasons that had everything to do with the love he saw before him. Jeff could not see Jensen breaking with that duty, or, more importantly, finding happiness or self-respect if he did. Jeff would not be the one who brought that down on Jensen. With that thought, he turned back to begin his preparations to leave.


	5. Chapter 5

Jensen was quite happy to see Joshua--truly, he held his brother in great affection--but between Margaret's arrival and the unexpected dramas at Danneel's, the time spent reviewing opportunities with Kripke, and a long night at Lady Jersey's ball confounding the gossips, Joshua arriving on the doorstep meant another day was fading toward dusk and he was no nearer to understanding what had possessed him to act as he had with Jeff Morgan than he had been when he had done it. Dinner this evening was to be _en famille_ , and thus early, though Meg would complain vociferously of not being able to follow town fashions, but Jensen knew that Joshua would invite his company for a few hands of faro at White's after, and another evening would be past.

It did, indeed, happen much that way. Jensen focused his attention on his family as best he could, but as much as Joshua's enthusiasm over such improvements to the estates as he'd been able to accomplish in the last months cheered him to see, the conversation still centered on how best to administer farmlands. It was not something Jensen had ever enjoyed, and now, with the added distraction of needing to puzzle out exactly what had happened in that small, private room at Mrs. Parker's, Jensen was very nearly done in by how very much he did not _care_ what might best be grown where.

Jensen was promised to call on Sophia the next afternoon; he half-hoped, half-feared he might see Jeff while at Lady Graham's--feared, because he could not begin to decide what he might say; hoped, because he found that each time he contemplated seeing Jeff again, it was with the greatest of anticipation.

The whole of the next morning was nothing but wasted time; Jensen could not focus his attention on any single thing long enough to think two coherent thoughts about it. Margaret, he knew, felt this was due to the unease he must naturally feel in calling on the young lady to whom he had been so close to proposing. She was much given to sympathetic looks and what she believed to be cheering advice, and since Jensen could not admit the truth--that it was not Miss Bush but her cousin who was disordering his thinking--he was forced to suffer her tender ministrations throughout the morning.

It was with the greatest of relief that Jensen escaped the house after a light luncheon and made his way along the leafy streets to Grosvenor Square. The sounds of a piano filled the house as a footman led him up the stairs. Sophia looked up from the pianoforte as the double doors opened, and even from across the drawing room, Jensen could see the happiness in her eyes. She crossed the room quickly and took both his hands in hers, and Jensen could not help but be happy for her as well.

"I am so glad you felt you could come," Sophia said. "I should not have blamed you if you decided you wanted nothing more to do with me, not after the dreadful scene I caused."

"I cannot think of anyone who had a better cause for such emotion." Jensen pressed her hands in his, and followed her to the settee. Fraser arrived with tea, and in the jumble of explanations and plans and details, Jensen was able to ignore that he was listening for Jeff Morgan's voice even as he was describing the sudden upheaval of both his siblings joining him in town and Collins near-apoplexy at the state of Joshua's wardrobe.

"He is almost resigned to my uncaring and unfeeling attitude--I am, after all, only the younger brother, and I do deeply appreciate whatever magic he works on my boots. That the earl himself is completely indifferent is like a mortal blow. He has been heard muttering about standards and setting examples."

"Well, I am very grateful you are not a Dandy--they are most ridiculous to see, with their shirt points so high they cannot turn their heads and their stripes and polka dots enough to give one a headache. My cousin wears only--oh!"

Sophia jumped to her feet and hurried to the small desk under the window. "My cousin--I had completely forgotten to tell you. He has decided to return to Italy--most suddenly, and I am certain Lady Graham is very unhappy with him, but he left me this letter for you, as he said he knew that you would be calling on me. "

The letter Sophia handed him had his initials written in bold, heavy strokes; when he broke the seal, the note inside was nearly as minimal, only asking him to call on a Mr. Somerset at Hoare's Bank at Temple Bar at his earliest convenience. Jensen stared at the paper as though he had mislaid a part of it, but no, he had it all. It was simply that there was nothing of the personal about it: no hint that the writer and the reader had been anything but acquaintances, not the slightest implication of intimacies shared in a small private room.

When he finally looked up from the paper, Sophia was watching him, a small, worried crease between her eyes. "Jeffrey was most... distracted as he entrusted me with this," she said. "He said that had you any questions, they would be answered in the interview. You do not think there is anything wrong, do you?"

"No," Jensen responded automatically, and not altogether untruthfully. No matter his personal issues, and no matter that he could not imagine why he was being asked to meet with a banker, he had no feel for anything ill coming of it.

"Perhaps my cousin has some commission for you to execute," Sophia offered, doubtfully. "He did take his leave abruptly."

"Yes," Jensen answered. "Yes, of course." He put as good a face as possible on it, and though Sophia did not seem wholly taken in by his attempt, she did him the courtesy of changing the subject to an innocuous topic, and a few moments later, when Jensen begged leave to go, she did not press him to linger, merely pressed her hand to his and offered him her thanks once again.

Outside the house Jensen hesitated, but did finally decide that delaying the appointment would not be helpful. He found a cab and made his way into the City. He was not sure what he expected, but it was not to be ushered into a well-appointed office immediately upon giving his name. He was greeted by a distinguished senior partner who, after exchanging pleasantries regarding the weather and other sundry topics, opened several files and said, "I'm given to understand that you both have a personal account with us, and that you are authorized to draw on the earl, your brother's, account." When Jensen confirmed the information, he continued, "In light of the particular circumstances here, I did not wish to assume to which account the monies are to be deposited."

He looked up, clearly expecting Jensen to have an answer at the ready; his pen poised to record it. "Should you wish to use an account at a different bank, it would mean a slight delay but we would, of course, be happy to accommodate your requirements," he assured Jensen.

"I--beg your pardon," Jensen said, after a long moment in which the words he'd just heard refused to resolve themselves into those that made sense. "Monies?"

"The ten thousand pounds to be transferred from Mr. Morgan's account." There was more; Jensen heard vague noises that he could identify as words, but he could not have repeated them, not even at swordpoint.

After a certain amount of confusion on Jensen's part, and consternation on the part of the several partners who flooded into, and then out of, the small office--confusion including Jensen examining the sparsely worded but specific instructions Jeff had left with the bank--there was in fact nothing more to be done. The bank held instructions for a legitimate transfer, such instructions having been issued in person to a senior partner, as well as confirmed in writing. When Jensen asked what possible reason might have been given for the transaction, he was met with stiff, somewhat offended assurances that the partners of Hoare's would not presume to inquire into the personal matters behind any financial transaction.

They did, however, have a note addressed to Jensen, and sealed with a signet crest that matched the ring Jensen knew Jeff wore on the small finger of his right hand. The partners withdrew that Jensen might read in privacy, but when he broke the seal he found inside but a single sheet of paper that read _I've no doubt you'll use it well_ , signed with a strong, heavy _JDM_.

In the end, they left it that the entire sum would be deposited in Jensen's private account, the bank awaiting any further instructions from him as to the disposal of same, and Jensen found himself back out on the street a bare forty minutes after he had walked into the building, as confounded as he had ever been in his life. He stood in front of the bank long enough that a cabbie nearby called to him, offering him a ride.

As he could easily imagine ending his day in the Thames given his distraction, Jensen took the man up on his offer and spent the time to Cavendish Square lost in thought. He was no closer to any sort of clarity when the cabbie pulled up outside his house, and could only be thankful when Taylor informed him that Joshua had taken Margaret to see a performance at Astley's Amphitheater and for a supper following. He himself asked for a light dinner on a tray in the study and withdrew to try once again to make sense of the afternoon. He had not gotten far--in fact, had gotten precisely nowhere--when there came a knock on the front door, and he heard Jared greeting Taylor.

"In the study?" Jared's voice was coming closer, as though he was bounding up the stairs. "I'll announce myself," he said, as he opened the door. "Jen, I have news of the best sor--" He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Jensen, who supposed he must present quite a sight after some hour of pacing and having stripped off his coat and neckcloth. "By God, Jen, what has happened?"

"No one has died," Jensen said. "But beyond that, I could not begin to tell you."

" _Try_ ," Jared answered, as put out as Jensen had ever seen him. He splashed brandy into two glasses and rang for Taylor, desiring him to send up more food. Eyeing the brandy, Taylor suggested a platter of such breads and cold meats and cheeses as could be found in the kitchen. Swallowing quickly around the burn of the liquor, Jensen could only agree. Throwing himself into a wingback chair in front of the fire, Jared held his peace until the food was brought and Taylor withdrew, and then fixed Jensen with a glare.

"Now, Jen."

Jensen told it as best he could: the letter Sophia had given him, the warm reception from the partners at Hoare's, the instructions they had, the brief note enclosed therein. It was not until Jared said, musing, "I had not thought you so close," that Jensen realized he had not given any consideration to how he might explain so extraordinary a gift.

"I--we--" Jensen floundered for words, and to his horror, felt his face heat, and knew he was flushing deeply, his fair skin allowing no part of his mortification to pass unnoticed. He turned away from Jared, not particularly wanting to see his reaction, expecting at the very least for Jared to leave. He could not think of what other--far worse--reactions Jared might have, but Jared was only silent for a long while, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and uncharacteristically subdued.

"I joined the Third as a cornet just as the Duke--he was Wellesley, then--brought his focus on taking Spain. We fought several skirmishes--I can't even remember the names now--and then we were at Ciudad Rodrigo, in support. It was a hard-fought battle and I thought myself well-blooded, at least until the following weeks when we were seconded to Badajos, to fortify Craufurd's Light in the assault." He paused and Jensen heard him swallow hard.

"They said Wellington wept on the field as the sun rose and all was revealed," Jensen said quietly. The French had known the assault was coming; they had spent their time well, fortifying the walls, creating deadly hazards in the ditches in front of them. The assault had commenced during the night, hoping for surprise, but the Light Division had been very nearly annihilated, losing nearly half their numbers in an hour. They fought on; it was victory but at a horrific cost.

"I have heard that, too," Jared said. "I--cannot tell you how I came through that night. I cannot tell you how many of my own men I rode over as they fell, because to stop would be to lose everything. When Craufurd finally took the walls, the blood ran like a river in the ditches in front of them. I--" He stopped again, but only briefly, and when he spoke again, his voice was firm. "I swore that morning I would not waste any minute of what I had been given. We wear the honors for Salamanca and Vittoria, but Badajos is where I count my life defined."

Jared stood but did not otherwise move, neither toward Jensen nor toward the door. "I tell you this not to take away from your cares but to impress upon you how little I hold with what others say is right or wrong. Whatever you might wish to divulge, I will hold it commended."

Jensen remained still; in truth, he was somewhat overwhelmed by all that Jared was offering, and how easily he offered it. He and Danneel had shared much when they were young, but in his life, Jensen could not think of another man who had so offered.

"You will not shock me," Jared said, very, very quietly. "You will not disgust me or cause me to revile you. Not with anything you might say."

"I could not begin to tell you what it is between us," Jensen said finally. "Not because I lack faith in you, but because I cannot work it out in my own head to start." Jared nodded and took his seat again, and Jensen resumed pacing, but more slowly and thoughtfully. "I should not allow it to matter, what is between us. It should not affect what I might do with the money."

"Do you intend to keep it?"

"The bank has instructions not to accept a deposit of any kind not from Morgan himself," Jensen answered, and Jared grinned.

"No detail left unaddressed, eh?"

"Apparently not, save the one that explains what the blasted man meant by it all."

"He meant for you to shed the duty you bear," Jared said, in the patient tone one might use on a child, and then when Jensen did not know how to answer, added, "Must I truly explain what that means to you? I should think that beauty in your stables speaks for his intentions, much less _ten thousand pounds_."

"Yes, fine. Perhaps it does," Jensen snapped, feeling his face flush yet again as Jared collapsed into a chair and threw back his head to laugh. Jensen supposed he did cut a fine figure of obliviousness, but he did not think it was worth quite the enjoyment Jared was getting from it. And it was all very well and good, this grand gesture that Jeff had made, but it did not play out as simply as Jared might seem to think.

"Jared." Jensen waited with ill-concealed impatience. "Jared, only listen for a minute and answer me this dilemma and then you may have your entertainment at my expense for as long as you wish."

Jared composed himself with some difficulty and gestured to Jensen to go on.

"Since you have all the answers this evening, tell me this: should I keep the money--and how can I not, with the burdens it will lift--it relieves me of the need to marry, but... I cannot go to him with that debt between us."

"I cannot think it will matter," Jared said, sobering completely and giving the matter his attention. Jensen was once again grateful for Jared's easy acceptance. "He has already set his declaration--"

"No," Jensen said, thinking of the quick self-loathing in Jeff's voice, and even of the nature of this gift, one that was delivered by proxy, as if the giver was unworthy. He remained unsure of the precise nature of the relationship between Jeff and Sir Robert, but he understood enough to know that Sir Robert had traded upon a personal connection for his own gain, and he could very easily see how that had marked Jeff. "Please believe me when I say that it will be an obstacle."

"But one that you might overcome," Jared said, firmly. "You have his trust, do you not? It might take some time, but I have faith that you would persevere."

Jared stared at Jensen with such confidence and conviction that Jensen could not find the heart to debate him. "Perhaps," Jensen said, and then, before Jared could continue, introduced another topic. "But you said you had news? When you first arrived, before we became embroiled in my day's excitement."

"Oh!" Jared leaped to his feet, and bowed with a flourish. "You have the honor to be addressing the gentleman deemed acceptable by Lord Dersingham to offer marriage to his only daughter, Miss Genevieve Cortese."

"Famous news," Jensen exclaimed. "Surely you can have no doubts as to how she will welcome such an offer?"

"We have not discussed it," Jared said, and Jensen could not help but snort, no matter how inelegant it might sound. "Not in any specific detail," Jared amended, with a rueful grin. "I could not, not until I knew her father might accept me."

"Of course," Jensen allowed. "Had you doubts there?"

"I have land here, a rich enough estate, but only a few cousins on my mother's side. My family is on the Continent--I did not know if her father might object to her marrying someone who by necessity might spend much time elsewhere."

"But now that you have his blessing?"

"I can address her formally," Jared said, with a wide, happy smile. "I have plans to do just that, on the day after tomorrow."

"Two days?" Jensen said dryly. "I am amazed at your restraint. Should I rather be sending for a doctor?"

"Well, I am somewhat occupied on the morrow, since Morecomb has finally completed his arrangements and I can fulfill our wager," Jared said, his smile turning into something sharp and predatory. "I am expecting to finance a very handsome wedding trip. Very handsome."

"You are quite confident," Jensen said, laughing. "Too confident, perhaps?"

"It is a pleasure ride, Jensen."

"To the coast and back!"

"No one will be shooting at me," Jared countered. "It is _summer_ \--there is no snow and we are not in the mountains of Spain and Portugal. Diablo is bored, itching to be out and moving." From how Jared was prowling around the room, Jensen did not think Diablo was the only one of that pair who was itching to be on the move. "Morecomb is an idiot," Jared continued, "the kind who sat in his gentleman's club and thought that Napoleon defeated himself, that Wellington did nothing, and the men he commanded spent their time polishing their buttons and dicing. I'll wager he thinks our final march to be unconscionably slow; that taking forty days to move a thousand men and horses across all of France was insupportable."

"The Hussars do have uncommonly fine uniforms," Jensen said, with as much of an innocent air as he could muster. "I should have to think they are worthy of being kept in good order."

"Well," Jared said. "We did spend _some_ of our time attending to them." He ran his hands through his hair. "And I might have played at hazard a time or two."

"There, you see? He is not completely a dolt."

"No," Jared said cheerfully. "Just enough of one to counter all offers. Luckily, his father's pockets are deep, for he will be paying long into the summer on this one. Murray made the trip out to the family estates to cadge an extra bit from his mother, which means that I now fear leaving her in penury should anything untoward happen. Which it will not, but the thought is there."

"It would still not be a ridiculous idea to sleep before this pleasure ride," Jensen said firmly. "Yes, I know, I am impugning the honor of the King's Own Hussars; you may have your second call on me once you have won your bet and made your intentions toward Genevieve known to her."

"And planned my wedding trip," Jared added.

"Yes, well, with that ambitious agenda, I will not worry if I don't hear from Mr. Murray before next week," Jensen said, walking down the grand staircase with Jared.

"You'll be there in the morning, yes?" Jared paused at the door, somewhat serious again. "I leave at dawn or a little before; it is a pleasure ride, yes, but there is no sense in not taking all the time owed to me."

"Yes," Jensen sighed, thinking of his very comfortable bed and how little he had slept in it lately. "Of course, I'll be there to see you off."

"Excellent," Jared said. "And Jen, do not think me unaware of how neatly you changed our subject earlier. We have not exhausted that topic or the strategies you might employ."

"You have much to accomplish in the next few days," Jensen said. "Your focus should be on your own life."

"See, you do it again," Jared said. "I am nothing if not stubborn; do not waste your time trying to distract me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Jensen lied, with so pious an expression as to be ridiculous. Jared laughed and clapped him on the back, departing with a admonishment to arrive early the next morning for the added sport of counting how many gentlemen of the _ton_ might beat a hasty retreat from Diablo taking offense at their cravats and waistcoats.

Jensen stepped back to allow the footman to close the door and retreated to his own room to take stock of everything the day had wrought. Collins appeared before Jensen could ring for him, collecting his boots for their nightly caretaking ritual, and receiving the news of Jensen's pre-sunrise appointment with the usual imperturbable nod.

"Have you plans beyond seeing Captain Padalecki off?" Collins asked, carefully considering Jensen's wardrobe. Jensen was not surprised to see the coat he had discarded in the drawing room had already been retrieved and had been set aside for Collins to assess the damage Jensen had done to it by stripping it off himself. He was also not surprised that Collins was _au courant_ with Jensen's early morning plans; it was part and parcel of his talent at being indispensable, Jensen supposed.

"I'm to take Lady Margaret riding in the afternoon, most probably with Lady Ross," Jensen answered. Collins nodded, as if Jensen were confirming what he already knew.

"As Miss Somerset's focus is turned more toward Lady Margaret's education and deportment--as it should be--and there is no lady of the house to loan her a dresser, I took the liberty of pressing Lady Margaret's riding habit, and refreshing it a bit with some of the ribbons Lady Ross sent home with her."

"That is--very kind of you," Jensen said, somewhat astonished. In his experience, gentlemen's gentlemen of Collins's caliber did not lower themselves to notice the clothing of a girl still in the schoolroom, let alone take it upon themselves to care for it. "Is there no end to your talent, Collins?"

"One's path through life is not always predictable," Collins said, setting aside the bottle green jacket and a pair of riding breeches. "Limiting oneself to what should be done, because it has always been done that way, rather than what _can_ be done has the unfortunate effect of circumscribing one's options." He paused and one corner of his mouth quirked into an almost smile. "All of which is to say that during one unfortunate period in my life, the best possible employment was as an assistant to a _modiste_. It was," he added thoughtfully, "more than a bit better than starving, and I have never quite lost the knack of accessorizing a lady's _ensemble_."

With that, he reverted to his imperturbable mien and, having gathered the articles of clothing to which he felt he needed to attend, departed.

It was, Jensen decided after some reflection, probably best if he treated such an extraordinary confession from his most correct of valets as simply one more oddity in a series of days filled with the same. It must, in fact, take its place well behind the other events of the week, those about which Jensen must come to some kind of decision, if only that he might find peace of mind.

First and foremost, of course, was the money. Ten thousand pounds was a substantial sum, one that could fulfill any number of pressing needs of the family, everything from providing Margaret with a dowry to clearing some of the remaining mortgages to allowing certain improvements upon the estate to happen much more quickly than otherwise would be possible, thus hastening the overarching goal of returning the lands to the capacities that several generations of neglect had wrought havoc upon.

Jensen could not, in good conscience, accept such a gift--yet how could he refuse it? It would allow him to bring about everything he had set himself to right, and leave him free to pursue his own life. The crowning irony, of course, was that he could have that, but not Jeff, regardless of what Jared thought was possible. If he did not accept the money he could perhaps forge a life that included Jeff, but at a cost to his family he was not certain he could accept.

It was a maddening circle and one that Jensen could see no way to escape, and it was all the more frustrating in that it should have done nothing but make him happy. Indeed, three months earlier, in the library at Richardson Hall, had Jensen heard the news that ten thousand pounds had arrived in the estate's accounts without the need for him to marry, he would have been well-satisfied with his life. Now, he could only look at it and see all that he could not have.

And that, he decided, made him sound as if he were still in the nursery, stamping his feet and sulking over a treat denied.

If he convinced Joshua to invest part of the windfall in something other than bonds, he could make up the difference in... He found pen and paper and worked out an ambitious schedule based on Kripke's most optimistic projections, and even if he suffered no reverses it was still the better part of a decade. He was tempted to seek out some of the better vintages the Black Earl had left, but all that did was serve to remind him of everything his grandfather hadn't left, and he was back to sounding like a child again.

He could take Jared's advice and go to Jeff regardless; do his best to convince Jeff that he was not there out of any sense of obligation. He might be able to make Jeff believe that, but if he could not, it would mean an ugly end, and he thought he would rather never have the chance than see it end in such a way.

The sky had long since been dark; Jensen had vaguely been aware of the voices and clatter that signaled his siblings' return from their theater outing. All was quiet now, for all that it was not late by town standards. Jensen could hear the soft sounds of Collins in the dressing room that adjoined Jensen's bedroom, preparing for the following day, and a mad plan, born of Jensen knew not what, began to edge itself into his mind.

He had money, yet needed more. Doing things the way they had always been done would not work in this instance; Jensen was in need of actions not limited by how things should be. This plan--no, Jensen could not even call it a plan. This idea--it was not limited by what should be. Of that much Jensen was certain. It was madness, yet the more Jensen turned it over in his mind, the less the voice he listened to at the faro table, at his desk reviewing investments, objected. Before he could find a reason to be bound by what should be and not live by what could be, Jensen went to ask Collins to lay out clothing for the rest of the evening, and on his way out of the house he paused in front of the portrait of the Black Earl and thought perhaps he had inherited some of that madness after all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Dover was not Jeff's most favorite port. Not even twenty years had completely dulled the fury and humiliation and fear that had accompanied his first visit there, with his uncle's words of shame and ignominy still thundering in his ears. It was long past, true, and Jeff could say in all honesty that he had grown past the unthinking reactions of a callow youth, but some echoes still lingered in his life, and there was no place that brought them out more than Dover.

Normally, they would spend no more than a few days in port; Jeff was not particular about the ship upon which they might sail, nor the destination. No matter where they landed, it was easy enough to hire transportation overland. On this occasion, with Jeff electing to leave London quickly and thus not wishing to spend the time to sell the pair of chestnuts he'd bought, he was forced to be more selective, and the rooms he'd rented began to take on the air of settled living. It was not providing much of a salubrious effect on his already frayed state of mind.

Ferguson, never one to let Jeff's moods interfere with his own life, took full advantage of the time to further the comfortable arrangement he'd formed in years previous with a widow who ran a small boarding house not far from the docks. When Jeff growled that he was beginning to question why he paid a salary to Ferguson at all, given the amount of time he spent elsewhere, the generally imperturbable Scot drew himself to his full height and, leveling a flat glare at Jeff, inquired as to whether Mr. Morgan was truly wishing to visit the topic of Ferguson's hours and duties with respect to the wages he had been paid over the years.

Jeff glared back, but somehow managed to rein in the thoroughly disagreeable and completely immoderate reply. Ferguson allowed the cold silence to build until it was apparent that he had made the point he'd wished to make, and then took himself off to visit his lady friend, leaving Jeff to stalk and mutter about the room and frighten the somewhat simple maid with his brusque replies to her questions, so much so that he felt it necessary to forward his apologies through the innkeeper and leave a generous tip for the girl.

Given his general lack of civility, dinner brought up to the rooms seemed to be the course to set for the evening; he wasn't surprised to find the innkeeper's wife supervising and eyeing him with an expression that said she'd brook no ill-tempered outbursts in her presence. She delivered a fine meal, though, and Jeff, somewhat to his own surprise, eschewed the ale that had accompanied the food and generally sorted himself into some level of clear-headed rationality.

It was no use ignoring his foul temper; as Mary-Louise had so pointedly reminded him, pretending wouldn't do anything but prolong the misery. At the very least, he was done with London and on his way back to Italy, and, for the first time, it truly felt as though he was returning to his home, rather than someplace he only called that. And, whatever else about his time in London that had not proceeded as he might have wished, his grandmother's wholly unexpected acknowledgement of his actions during the war settled something so long ago disturbed he had forgotten he had even been carrying it until it had been set down again.

As for the other events of this most recent trip, he had not enjoyed anything beyond the most casual of connections for some years, to the point that it was quite astonishing to realize he was still capable of wanting more. It was perhaps even more astonishing--and deeply gratifying--to also realize that he had not repeated the arrogant and careless displays of temper that had last accompanied deeper feelings, even if he hadn't handled himself with what might be deemed stellar restraint. Still, he counted it as progress. By the time the he was on his deathbed, Jeff mused, he might actually have achieved some level of self-mastery, possibly even enough to be counted as acceptable for society as a whole.

A knock sounded at the door; the innkeeper's wife, no doubt, returning to make certain Jeff had not done damage to her crockery. Given that she had allowed him the barest minimum of time to finish his meal, Jeff did not feel the need to pretend any more than the barest of geniality as he opened the door. Instead of that good woman, though, Jeff found himself face-to-face with a tired- and irritable-looking Jensen, a sight so unexpected he could only gape.

"If you are expecting some sort of clever greeting," Jensen said, "I should warn you that as efficiently as the mail coaches run, it is nearly impossible to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time on them and I am far more likely to fall asleep against the wall."

"Most travelers break their journeys at an inn," Jeff said, recovering enough to step back out of the way. Jensen's caped greatcoat was damp from the fog, and his eyes, though tired, were brilliantly green in the slight pallor of his face. Jeff poured the ale he had not tasted during his supper and Jensen seized upon it with a grateful sigh.

"Most travelers," he answered, after a long draught, "are not trying to catch errant benefactors before they disappear to the Continent."

"I didn't intend for you to--"

Jensen interrupted snappishly. "Did you suppose I might merely accept your gift--ten _thousand_ pounds, Jeff? Do you have no sense at all? I know you cannot have pockets so deep as to part with that kind of money without noticing, but even if you had, did you actually think I might take it and do nothing but think fondly of you?"

"I can assure you that I did not beggar myself," Jeff said, just as shortly, and with the barest of hopes that Jensen might be distracted enough by his tone to pass by exactly how much Jeff had not answered his true question. Truthfully, Jeff hadn't thought about it at all, not once the idea had presented itself. To think about how Jensen might have reacted would have meant not only acknowledging his own course of action, but also the reasons behind it and the futility of the entire enterprise. It was much easier to act, not think, which might actually describe his life to date.

"While I am," Jensen said, putting down his glass of ale and reaching into his coat, "exceedingly gratified to hear that--and exceedingly grateful for your offer in the first place--I cannot in truth accept it." He placed a folded and sealed paper on the table, one that Jeff recognized as the original written instruction to Hoare's. There was a second paper along with it, one that Jeff could see was a draft made out to his account.

"It's nothing that I want," Jeff said quietly. "Nothing that I need."

"Jeff," Jensen said, his voice hoarse and rough with emotion. "I cannot." Jeff stared at the paper, marshaling his thoughts for one last attempt at persuasion, and Jensen's voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "Do not put me under that obligation to you."

He met Jeff's eyes with a barely disguised look of pleading, desperate enough that Jeff could not ignore it. He closed his eyes and took the paper, turning away from the table and fumbling at the leather satchel where he kept his important papers. He would burn it later, he decided; remove all evidence. When he turned back, Jensen had sunk into the chair next to the table, tension and strain leaching out of him.

"Thank you," Jensen murmured, not smiling, but looking at Jeff with eyes that were clear and brilliant. "Both for the original intent and for understanding now."

"As one necessitated being canceled by the other, I'm not certain I've done anything worth being thanked for," Jeff said. "You're welcome," he added, deciding he sounded at best truculent, and at worst, like the sulking child he still felt lived inside him.

Jensen nodded once, and the silence that descended was more easy than Jeff might have imagined. The room faced out over the front door of the inn, several stories below, and the sounds of the street, still busy even this long past sunset, filtered through the rough glass and wood of the windows.

"It was never my intention to put you in my debt," Jeff said. A part of him insisted he should simply pretend he had never been struck by the mad notion in the first place, and he was not certain it was not right, but he did need Jensen to understand at least as much as that.

"I believe you did not mean for it to happen, but it could not help but play out that way."

"I would not have pressed any such debt; you would never have even seen me--"

Jensen set the tankard down sharply, cutting Jeff off, but did not speak at once. "That was too high a price," he said, eventually. "One I found I didn't wish to pay. I would see you again, Jeff--"

"And you think I've a taste for standing in the shadows, waiting for what little attention you can spare from the one you _are_ obligated to?" Jeff could barely choke the words out past the heaviness in his chest, his throat, past the weight of bitterness still left from the years he'd done just that.

"I do not!" Jensen answered, with some indignation, enough that Jeff almost laughed at how outraged he was on Jeff's behalf, as though Jeff hadn't wasted half his life chasing something so unworthy.

 _You would be wrong_ , Jeff wanted to tell him, _should_ tell him, but if the past had weighed on him heavily before, it was truly suffocating now, and he couldn't speak.

"Jeff," Jensen was saying. " _Jeff_. I did not come here solely to return your gift--I came…" His voice trailed off, and for the first time, he looked uncertain, but he breathed in deeply and continued. "I came to--I come to _you_."

"Jensen," Jeff said, as gently as he knew how. "I--as much as you cannot be indebted to me, I cannot be the reason you turn away from your family."

"Oh, I am not," Jensen said. "I--" He stopped, and with astonishment, Jeff realized Jensen was blushing, his freckles all but lost in the sudden flush of red on his face. "I took the money you gave me and I doubled it in a wager, so that I could have everything I wanted."

"You," Jeff started. He shook his head incredulously; surely he had not heard correctly. "You _bet_ with that money? All of it?" His voice had risen to a near shout by the end, and Jensen's eyes flashed in response.

"For someone who so casually throws his money about, it would appear you have quite the attachment to it after all," he said evenly.

"I gave it to you so that, so that you… would not be constrained by your grandfather's idiocies. I had no idea you followed so closely in his path." Jeff was still shouting; Jensen had risen to his feet by the end of the tirade, not giving Jeff so much as an inch.

"If I recall correctly, you enjoyed watching me on that path at the faro table," Jensen said, in something close to a hiss. "You enjoyed playing alongside me, did you not?"

"Ten thousand pounds, Jensen. Ten _thousand_."

"I am quite aware of the amount, Jeff." Jensen's jaw was set, and his shoulders were equally tense. "It was my _life_ on that line, so, _yes_ , I bloody well know how much I put up." He stopped and breathed in carefully, and when he met Jeff's eyes again, it was with the cool, detached, faintly mocking look that Jeff knew meant he was already stepping back, already distancing himself. "You gave me the means to take care of those I loved, but if I did that, I could not have you. It was… a compromise, and one I did not much like. I thought it worth the risk not to have to make it."

He reached for his coat, preparing to leave, Jeff realized, and his voice grew even more distant as pushed his arms into the sleeves. "I apologize if I was mistaken in interpreting the reasons you started this in the first place, or if I've assumed too much, or if you find my actions unforgiv--"

Before Jensen could take even so much as a single step toward the door, Jeff reached for him, cutting off the rest of his speech with a kiss that was less practiced or polished and more a crashing wave of high emotion. Jensen met him equally, his cool detachment no more than a mask that Jeff was more than happy to sweep out of the way, even as he pulled Jensen closer, his hands sliding under greatcoat and jacket and waistcoat, pulling impatiently at the fine linen of Jensen's shirt and stopping only at the sudden shock of feeling warm, soft skin against his fingertips.

"Jeff," Jensen was saying, breathless and longing. "Jeff." His eyes were dazed, the green all but swallowed by the dark, enormous pupil, and his mouth was already reddened and swollen. Jeff could not resist; groaning, he captured it again, kissing it more roughly than he intended, Jensen once more matching him in intensity.

With the greatest of difficulty Jeff forced himself to stop, to tear his mouth away from Jensen's, to step back and think rather than throw himself headlong into this, dragging Jensen with him. Jensen sighed his name out once again, and Jeff very nearly lost all his good intentions.

"Jen," he whispered, far closer to a whine than he might have wished, except that Jensen did not gloat or revel in Jeff's need, only mirrored it back to him, so that Jeff was fair staggered by it all. "Jen, only wait," he managed to say, and Jensen held himself in check. "Have you--"

"No," Jensen breathed. "No, I have not even considered it before you, but I cannot think of anything else now."

"We have no need to rush," Jeff said, and Jensen did not waste words in argument, merely pressed close again, slipping one thigh between Jeff's and allowing him to feel precisely how wrong he was. "Jen," Jeff said, truly desperate now. "I would not hurt you--"

"No," Jensen breathed. "I know you would not." Without stepping back, he somehow managed to remove his coat, and then, while Jeff still stood bemused, attacked the buttons on Jeff's waistcoat with great enthusiasm, if not complete control over his hands. After the third fumbling attempt to slide the final few buttons free, he slanted a glance up at Jeff through thickly fringed lashes and snapped, "Do feel free to lend your assistance at any time."

Jeff could not remember if he had ever been so simultaneously near-frenzied for the feel and taste of another's skin and caught on the edge of helpless laughter, but he thought it a combination of extraordinary worth, even as he stilled Jensen's hands with his own and all but ripped the buttons free.

"Thank you," Jensen breathed, smoothing the waistcoat over and off Jeff's shoulders before returning to work at the buttons on his shirt. These endeavors progressed more smoothly, if only because Jensen, taking a page from Jeff's own book, simply ripped at the uncooperative fastenings.

Unbidden, Jeff's mind turned to the likely expression on Ferguson's face when presented with a buttonless shirt and he could not choke back the laughter it engendered. Jensen paused in his efforts--but did not move back so much as an inch, Jeff was happy to note--and arched a familiar eyebrow at Jeff.

"I amuse you?" Jensen drawled, and then when Jeff explained, blanched a bit before adding, "It cannot be so difficult to resew a button. We will contrive, I am sure." He returned to his self-appointed task with renewed vigor, and before Jeff could contribute any further distractions to the unfolding events, had the final buttons dealt with and was free to send Jeff's shirt to join his waistcoat on the floor.

Jensen paused for the span of a breath or two, then drew the back of his hand along a path that started at Jeff's collarbone and ended just above the waist of his riding breeches. For all that it was a skimming, light touch, the barest contact against his skin, Jeff's heart beat hard in his chest and his breath came heavy and labored well before Jensen lifted his hand from Jeff's skin and prepared to trace a second path. That one started at the opposite collarbone, but ended at the same spot, and Jeff's hand shook as he caught Jensen's and brought it to his mouth.

"You will make me come undone," Jeff said, as he pressed a kiss to Jensen's palm, letting his tongue brush the skin there as well.

"I should like that," Jensen murmured, before he turned his hand to trace another feather-light path along Jeff's mouth, his jaw, laughing softly as Jeff lost his composure enough to catch his wrist and pull him along as Jeff stumbled backwards toward the second of his rooms and a bed. The rooms were thankfully small, as Jeff had chosen the inn based on proximity to the harbor rather than the grandeur of its accommodations, so it took only a few steps to achieve his goal, and then he could bring his attention to bear on stripping Jensen of such clothes as could be removed while kissing him incoherent.

Jeff paused in his mission to reduce Jensen to senseless babbling only to deal with their boots; once they had been removed, he returned his mouth to Jensen's skin with alacrity, bent on finding what might make him tremble against Jeff, applying himself to his task with such focus that it took Jensen's fingers twisting in his hair to break his attention.

"Jeff," Jensen was saying breathlessly. " _Jeff_ , only wait--we have a bed, one that you have quite pointedly dragged me to--" He was flushed and laughing, but Jeff could see a darker red around his wrist, where Jeff had indeed dragged him across the rooms. Jensen saw where Jeff's eyes had landed and, cupping his jaw, brought Jeff's eyes back to meet his own. "My skin has ever marked easily," he reassured Jeff. "You have done me no harm. Indeed," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper and the humor in his eyes shifting to something far more wanting, "I find it most... fitting to be so marked." He brought his wrist to his own mouth, kissing it lightly before offering it to Jeff.

With self-control he did not know he possessed, Jeff managed to do nothing beyond brushing his lips across the proffered skin, and was rewarded by Jensen laughing softly and pulling him forward so that they both tumbled down on the bed.

"You distract me greatly," Jensen said, with equal parts frustration and humor. "I cannot complete any one thought without some new desire pushing it aside." It was a sentiment Jeff felt was only fair, as he had himself lost all ability to to think with any coherency beyond the most basic. "I had meant to say that we should take advantage of this bed you had dragged me to, but then...

His voice trailed off as if he had discovered yet another new craving, and as much as Jeff might want to know, he reminded himself that he had more than enough right in front of him, and time to discover the rest. Before Jensen could give voice to any more distractions, Jeff took his mouth in an unhurried, thorough kiss and brought his attention back to his own original goal: to reduce Jensen to irrationality. When he finally paused to allow Jensen to breathe for more than a desperate breath or two, he thought he was performing admirably, to judge from the hectic flush that suffused the fair skin under his hands and the disjointed phrases Jensen had been gasping in his ear.

To be fair, Jeff allowed that he himself was not far behind, and when Jensen pushed his breeches down and off his legs, offering himself to Jeff's view, any small coherency Jeff might have retained was swiftly swept aside. He had planned to take great care with Jensen, to ease him into the pleasures Jeff so desperately wanted to give him, but at the sight of Jensen so blatantly open and wanting, Jeff could not hold himself in check. He rolled Jensen under him and held his hips against the mattress, the knowledge that his fingers were biting into that fair skin enough to leave his mark again an especial goad, and relaxed his throat to swallowed Jensen down as swiftly as he could.

Jensen's cries became wordless and his hands knotted in Jeff's hair, his wanton enjoyment urging Jeff on, so that all his intentions to draw out the sensations were swept completely away in the driving pleasure of Jensen so deep in his throat Jeff could not breathe. It took only a few seconds for Jensen to climax and Jeff tasted him eagerly, as aroused as if he himself had been the one receiving pleasure.

"Jeff," Jensen gasped, his fingers still tangled in Jeff's hair, and it took precious seconds for Jeff to realize they were pulling so Jeff might follow their direction and slide up to lie next to Jensen, instead of staying sprawled between his legs.

"Yes," Jensen murmured, as he took Jeff's mouth with his own, tasting himself with a low, broken noise, before nipping sharply at Jeff's bottom lip and demanding Jeff's attention. His hands worked quickly at the buttons to Jeff's breeches, and he did not stop until Jeff was as naked as he was himself, their legs tangled together and their breath mingling.

Jeff could not repress the helpless, greedy noise he made as Jensen took him in hand, elegant fingers exploring his length, teasing at the head. He stroked Jeff slowly at first, less an uncertain hesitance and more a careful exploration, but at every gasp and moan Jeff made, his touch grew more assured, until he whispered against Jeff's skin, "I told you I should like to see you come undone. You will not deny me, will you?" and Jeff could not help but do exactly as Jensen wished.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jeff could not begin to recall the last time he had lain abed, the warm, heavy weight of a lover draped pliantly across him. Jensen was all but purring as Jeff stroked along the line of his spine. Experimenting, Jeff stilled his hand, and the purr turned to an aggrieved grumbling.

"By all rights, you should be fast asleep," Jeff told Jensen, returning obediently to the petting motion. "It is twelve hours by mail coach from London."

"Mmmm," Jensen agreed. "And yet…"

"Stubborn," Jeff murmured, and Jensen laughed, a soft breath of air ghosting across Jeff's skin.

"Indeed." Jensen stirred a bit, shifting and moving to settle more comfortably. "I find I am not quite ready to give up enjoying the spoils of my day."

"It's good to know my place in all this," Jeff said dryly. He meant nothing by it, only idle teasing, but Jensen lifted his head from where it had been pillowed on Jeff's shoulder.

"Not like that," Jensen said, leaning in to brush his mouth along the edge of Jeff's jaw, smiling in satisfaction as Jeff could not help but shiver at the touch. He settled himself once more, and Jeff resumed his stroking, somewhat bemused. After a few moments of quiet, Jensen sighed. "You think me over-sensitive, but I have seen how easily something such as this can go awry, and I would not have that happen over casual words."

"I would hardly be one to call expertise on how to best engage with another," Jeff said, bemusement giving way to a rush of something he would not identify, not just yet. Instead, he kept his attention on the feel of Jensen pressed against him. "It seems a good enough plan to me."

Jensen made a low sound of agreement, less a word than a hum, comfortable and familiar.

The candles guttered low, flickering out one after another, the room narrowing down to the bed and the slow, regular breath against Jeff's skin. Jeff thought Jensen asleep, was certain of it. When the last candle sputtered and died, though, Jensen spoke into the darkness.

"If I ask--not now, but later, when you are ready--will you tell me why you so easily thought I would have you as nothing but a plaything?"

After a few moments of silent contemplation, Jeff found that it was not impossible to speak. Possibly it was the darkness, but he suspected it had more to do with the person asking. "You understand that I was... not someone I now take much pride in being when I was young. Very full of my worth and my breeding and my family, never couldn't have exactly what I wanted--" That was not precisely true: Jeff could have everything but that which he most wanted, his family intact, but he had not understood that for too long a time. "Robert was no different, or so I thought. I wanted him and I got him, until he told me that of course we couldn't be together. He was just embarking on a career with the Foreign Office, and he did not have the advantages of wealth and family, so he could not, he informed me, waste his life away as I did. A wife and family were expected of him, and he had just the young lady in mind. I reacted predictably, one giant explosion of distemper that ended with my uncle packing me off out of the country in front of an inquiry into dueling--which did happen, though I at least had the barest of sense and deloped, rather than killing the imbecile whom I fancied had insulted me."

"A duel that ended in delopement is hardly grounds for eternal exile," Jensen said quietly, and Jeff could only shrug.

"It was as good an excuse as any for my uncle to rid himself of my intemperance, as he called it. I spent the next few years in much the same way, until I received an inquiry from Mr. Phillip himself, asking for a meeting. I, of course, thought he'd come to his senses and I was prepared to be magnanimous and take him back, which was exactly what he was counting upon. He spun me a pretty tale: that if I assisted him, found him the information he needed, his star would rise so high it could easily be overlooked that his marriage was in name only."

"A simple-enough proposal," Jensen said, though it sounded as though he spoke through gritted teeth.

"One that I could not quite ever bring myself to believe, even while I did exactly as he asked." Jeff kept his hand moving on Jensen's back, as though he might be a living version of the worry beads Jeff had seen men use in his travels through the Ottoman Empire. "We continued on in that fashion for some number of years, and eventually he added the extra enticements that he would be sure my family would hear of it, that it would counteract my shameful behavior. He did not ever think I would continue on without some reason of personal gain, and I found it easier to let him continue on in that manner."

"We have spoken of this part before," Jensen said. "When it ceased to be a game for you."

"Stopping Bonaparte became paramount--it was chilling to see how easily he rolled through country after country. It was important, yes, but..." Jeff stopped and searched for words so that he might make Jensen understand. "Even at the beginning, it was ever something I took great pleasure in--the games, the rush of walking out of a room with precisely what I wanted to know and no one the wiser to my knowledge. It is addicting, to the point of madness, I think." He fell silent again; Jensen did not press him, but only waited patiently. "The weight of it grew, though, and the precariousness of living a second life below the surface of the first, even as it became less possible to walk away."

"And now?"

"Now, I... cannot say, precisely, except that I have a house, and no one to answer to but myself." It seemed an inadequate answer--it had been a year since Waterloo; surely Jeff should be able to know something more of what he might want--but it was the truth. Jensen did not seem to mind the vagueness, only nodded into Jeff's shoulder as though he might have made perfect sense.

"I will say his name once more and then we might never speak of him again should you wish it that way," Jensen said, after another pause, and then waited for Jeff to agree. "Would I be right in assuming that the baronetcy so recently conferred upon Sir Robert has much to do with your work?"

"It would seem so," Jeff answered. He had never followed what happened with the information he passed on to Robert, not other than to listen if a source had played him with falsehoods, but Robert had said as much and he was not one to share credit if not strictly necessary.

"So I thought." Jensen sighed. "Such a fine opportunity lost, Jeff."

"A fine opportunity?" It was not at all late, and Jeff had not, in fact, over-indulged as he might, but it had been an eventful evening, and Jensen's point of thought eluded Jeff.

"On St. James Street that night--there I had the most perfect excuse to put into practice everything I've learned from Gentleman Jackson, and I did not, because it might have caused a scene." Jensen sighed again. "Now that I more perfectly comprehend how he has profited from your efforts, I assure you such an oversight will not happen again."

He was quite matter-of-fact about it, so much so that Jeff was catapulted into a helpless amusement that could not be denied, nor its laughter suppressed. Jensen did not join him, though he did not seem to take offense, and waited Jeff's mirth out with some serenity.

"While I don't actually require rescuing," Jeff said, when he could catch his breath, "I do thank you."

"I think," Jensen said, tightening his arm around Jeff. "I think what you require is someone to care about what happens to you." His voice remained matter-of-fact, but he pressed closer, as if loathe to allow even the smallest distance between them.

"Would that be you, then?" Jeff asked, his voice catching deep in his chest.

"I believe it would be," Jensen said, arching up so that he could take Jeff's mouth in a kiss that felt like a promise.


	6. Epilogue

While there were many excellent qualities to living in Italy, and he found himself settling in to Jeff's house in the hills above Lago di Como with more ease than anyone might have expected, Jensen could not quite accustom himself to the morning sun. It was clearer than he was used to, sharper and brighter, and while he could properly appreciate how the quality of it offered excellent advantages to those who might paint, he felt it was completely uncivilized to be greeted by such a glare so early in the morning.

Jeff found his reaction particularly amusing, which Jensen supposed was far better than finding it unacceptable, but still did not much aid in the horror of being unable to sleep past a time better suited for farmers to rise. What did aid, Jensen decided on one such morning as a warm mouth brushed lightly over the back of his neck, dropping kisses and not-quite-gentle bites along the way, was having a partner who was fully alert and could thus take on the responsibility of guiding such early-morning lovemaking as might happen.

While Jensen was most happy to take such initiative himself--indeed, the previous evening had found him with Jeff writhing under him, completely at his mercy, a sight that Jensen did not think would ever grow tiresome or the slightest bit stale--he was also perfectly content to allow Jeff to coax him into wakefulness with a lazy mouth and clever hands. In marked contrast to their nights, Jeff was often in no hurry in the mornings. This time being no exception, Jensen was slowly brought to quivering helplessness, then eased back down from it, only to begin the cycle once again.

On the third such circuit, Jensen could take no more, breaking down and gasping, "Jeff, enough."

Jeff laughed softly, his breath striking cool against Jensen's overheated skin, but he shifted so that Jensen knew he had reached for the small vial of oil. "So you are awake," he murmured, teasing Jensen with a single slick finger. "I wanted to be sure."

"You wanted to drive me mad, you mean," Jensen said through gritted teeth. Jeff hummed thoughtfully and continued with his wicked plan, throwing one leg over Jensen to keep him still while he kept up the feather-light touches. " _Jeff_ ," Jensen added, not caring that he sounded desperate. "Now."

"You're certain?" Jeff asked, in a silky low whisper that sent shivers down Jensen's spine. The finger traced circles now, pressing just deeper with each circuit, still not hard enough to breach Jensen's entrance, but more than enough to remind him that he had ridden Jeff hard and long the night before. "You want me to take you like this," Jeff breathed, not a question at all but a statement, and one that sent a shudder of anticipation through Jensen.

He was not slick, not really--Jeff had only used the barest amount of oil and had only worked the smallest of that inside Jensen--and he was still sore from the night before. He had thrilled to that rough handling, lost in the heady and excited rush they had spent the night building. The hours since had dulled the discomfort, but if he said yes now, told Jeff to take him as he was, the pleasure Jeff would bring him--and there would be much pleasure--would be laced thoroughly with a reawakening of that pain and more. If Jensen said no, he knew Jeff would not press him, but he would draw out the preparation until Jensen truly did go mad. It was a delicious decision to be presented with, one with no wrong answer but only tempting possibilities.

"Yes," Jensen said. "Yes, please, now."

Jeff did not hesitate, pressing Jensen's thighs further apart and pushing into him immediately, and Jensen turned his face into the pillow to muffle his keen at the burning stretch of his body forced to accept Jeff's, long and thick and inexorable. Jeff pushed him to the edge and held him there with slow, deep thrusts that dragged ever more desperate noises from deep inside him, until Jensen reached to touch himself, frantic for relief, but Jeff caught his wrist and drew it back over his head. Jensen wailed this time, knowing that Jeff wanted him to reach satisfaction with nothing more than he was already receiving. He fought the grip on his wrist for a few, brief seconds, until Jeff tightened his hand and Jensen knew he would carry the marks for days. He was caught, well and truly, and there was nothing to do but let Jeff have him.

If Jeff's laugh was triumphant this time, it was breathless and shaky as well, and for all that it would appear Jeff was controlling everything, Jensen knew Jeff was as helpless in the face of these overwhelming feelings as was Jensen himself. Jensen tested the grip that held him as much for the pleasure he knew would flicker in Jeff's eyes when he caught sight of the bruises he'd left as for his own satisfaction in wearing them; and he knew Jeff roughened his stroke not only for his own gratification, but also because he knew Jensen craved the intensity of having his pleasure laced through with pain.

Jeff could reduce Jensen to sobbing helplessness, but this morning he did not tease, only pressed Jensen into the bed and thrust into him, each stroke edging Jensen closer, every breathless word building on the next, until Jensen knew only Jeff in him and around him, and even as he felt himself be overcome with pleasure, he knew Jeff to be there with him, just as taken over and powerless to resist.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jeff's life in Italy was simple, so much so that he had been convinced that Jensen would find it dull and uninspiring. He had already begun making plans to shift his base to Rome or Vienna to ensure Jensen's happiness when Jensen pried the whole thing out of him during their first week in residence. Equal parts aghast, irritated, and touched, Jensen had informed him in no uncertain terms--and rather loudly--that while Jensen could see that Jeff had many superior qualities, he was also becoming aware that he was an idiot on some occasions. The villa was far more modest than many on the shores of the lake, but there was a library of books Jensen had yet to read--his Italian was somewhat lacking, but he was learning quickly--and the view was truly magnificent. Jensen could not imagine not wanting to take it in every day.

As often as the weather would permit, they breakfasted on one of the terraces, before Jensen turned his attention to the investments that were beginning to create steady income and Jeff disappeared with oils and canvas. Signora Urso, who ran the house and cooked for them, would bring Jensen his morning coffee, intensely flavored and served in a tiny cup, and some of her sweet breads; and if it was not the tea and toast he had started every morning of his life with, it was a more than worthy substitute. On this morning, the good signora was followed by one of her many grand-nephews, carrying a leather satchel filled with such mail as had been received for the villa at the small postal office in the town of Como.

As Jensen sorted idly through it, he found both a packet from the offices of Messrs. Kripke and Singer and one from Richardson Hall. He set both aside for more detailed reading at a later time. Kripke, having found it was exceedingly convenient--not to mention profitable--to have a pair of trustworthy eyes on the Continent, would undoubtedly have some commission for Jensen to execute, and investments for Jensen's perusal, while Joshua--

As Jensen had explained away the money as the result of several considered wagers--which was not, in the strictest sense of the truth, a lie, as it merely side-stepped the question of the origination of the seed money--Jensen's parting interview with his brother had been contentious, with much shouting on both their sides. Joshua could not comprehend how Jensen could so blithely have followed in the footsteps--as he had phrased it--of the Black Earl, while Jensen felt that at least some of his brother's ill-temper had to do with being indebted to his younger brother. As both points of view held at least some merit, and the brothers were both genuinely fond of each other, they had worked hard to overcome their ire. Josh had swallowed his pride to accept the money and Jensen had done likewise to allow Josh his disapprobation, and their correspondence since had been regular, if strained. The letter would have much to say about the runnings of the estates, a topic about which Jensen still could not bring himself to care, but it would be good to see his brother's hand and hear of the familiar goings-on. He imagined Joshua might feel the same about Jensen's descriptions of his travel.

Far more suited to his current need of light reading to accompany his breakfast, Jensen found letters from Danneel and Margaret and Sophia. Jeff also had a letter from his cousin, who had steadfastly refused to allow their acquaintance to lapse despite Jeff's insistence and demonstration that he was an impossible correspondent. Jensen received letters from her for just this reason, as she said that he could be counted on to at least read what she had written and relay such information as he deemed important. Jensen wondered at times about the propriety of corresponding with the woman he very nearly married, while living in an unconventional arrangement with her cousin, but as no one with the possible exception of Jared had any notion of Jensen and Jeff as anything other than traveling companions, Jensen supposed it was not half as odd to anyone else.

"Danneel writes that she has convinced my brother to allow Margaret to visit her next spring for such small entertainments as can be arranged before Meg is officially presented," Jensen said, pretending not to notice Jeff prying the seal from Sophia's letter. "Good God, she says that after their visit to Harris Grange and Meg's near-constant presence, Ross has become quite fond of her and has insisted that they can easily sponsor her the year after."

"If Ross is taking on your sister, I think we can confidently infer he is still completely besotted by his wife, " Jeff said, without looking up from whatever Sophia had written. Jensen murmured an agreement--he, too, could assign no other explanation to Lord Ross willingly taking on an unrelated girl for the Season than to please Danneel--and discreetly unfolded his own note from Sophia. He did not smile, but it was with great satisfaction that he read of Lady Graham causing quite a flurry of speculation in giving Sir Robert Phillip the cut direct at a reception hosted by Lord Castlereagh. _Of course, she does not ever explain herself_ , Sophia wrote, " _but I am convinced it has everything to do with my cousin._ Jensen found himself wishing he could have witnessed the event; he was more than certain Lady Graham could administer the cut direct like no other. It would have been most gratifying to have seen it for himself.

Jensen tucked the letter back into his pile and was back perusing Danneel's missive by the time Jeff looked up. Jeff would tell him in due time--though that might mean months--though he would know Jensen already knew; until then, it would be more than sufficient to know that another small bit of the isolation Jeff carried was washed away. Signora Urso came back to refresh their coffees and bring a little fruit to finish their meal; Jensen practiced his Italian on her and she very kindly did not laugh at him as she corrected his pronunciation, though her eyes danced. Jeff did his best to smother a chuckle--Jensen did not want to think what he might have actually said--and she shot him a quelling look before asking, very slowly so Jensen could follow, when they would need the horses this day. Jensen managed to answer properly, if not entirely in top grammatical form, to judge from Jeff's smile, and she left, promising that yet another grand-nephew would have everything in order for them.

Because they were leaving later in the morning to pay a welcoming visit to Jared and Genevieve at their newly rented villa, their normal schedules were necessarily reordered for the day. Jensen had set aside several books from the library and was finally successful in convincing Jeff to begin reading them aloud, so the morning passed in a most pleasant fashion. The villa Jensen had helped Jeff find for Jared and Genevieve was a little north along the lake: an easy, twenty-minute ride along the well-maintained roads. It was much more grand than Jeff's home, but for all that they beheld such sights as the Villa d'Este, where the Princess of Wales was in residence, Jensen could not say the views from the terraces were any more magnificent than the ones he saw every day.

He had not been sure of Jeff's reaction to the news that Jared understood about them, but Jeff had received the information with no small measure of relief, as it had apparently been weighing on him greatly to think Jensen in the position of concealing his life from everyone. "Having even one person who knows is a full measure better than none," he'd said, and Jensen deferred to his knowledge on the subject of separate lives.

"Oh, Mr. Morgan, thank God you are come," Genevieve said, as a footman showed Jeff and Jensen into the villa. She ran lightly down the grand staircase, Jared following close behind her. "Oh, and you, as well, Jensen," she added, clasping both their hands and blushing a little at her rudeness. "It is lovely to see you both, but it would seem my Italian is far less advanced than my governesses had been letting on, and I have no idea what it is I just ordered for our dinner. If Mr. Morgan would be so kind as to step into my kitchens and sort things out I should be quite, quite grateful."

Jeff allowed himself to be led off, telling stories of Jensen's complete lack of anything resembling fluency the entire way, and Jared murmured, "Thank God, indeed. I am not sure what it was we were served to break our fast, but it was quite unexpected." He did not look too put out about it, though, and he shook Jensen's hand with the greatest of enthusiasm. "Do you not approve of my wedding trip?" he asked, throwing his arms wide to encompass the admittedly elegant hall, and Jensen could not help but laugh with him. They made their way into one of the many rooms overlooking the waters, and as they took in the view, Jared said quietly, "While we have some small privacy: I am glad to see you did not allow the money to stand between you and Jeff."

Jensen laughed again, and at Jared's inquiring look said, "It is both more simple and more complicated than that--the money does not stand between us because I took the money he gave me and dangled it in front of a half-dozen of the less-intelligent young gentlemen at Watier's the night before you and Diablo defended the honor of the Third Hussars and proved Morecomb to be as much of a dolt as we all had suspected."

Jared gaped at Jensen, a dawning horror in his eyes. "How much?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"All of it," Jensen admitted.

"All of it," Jared repeated, throwing himself onto an ornately embroidered and carved chair, one with delicate legs that Jensen was not sure might bear the sudden weight. The wood creaked but held, and Jared dropped his head into his hands. "On me," he added, his voice muffled.

"And Diablo," Jensen added. "I secured the final wager that morning, just before he appeared." When Jared still did not move, Jensen continued, "It is not so very much more than the wagers you covered personally."

"It is hardly the same!" Jared lifted his head to glare at Jensen. "That was everything you had, Jen."

"It was worth it," Jensen said quietly. "To have gained what I have now, it was most assuredly worth the risk, Jared."

"Thank God you did not tell me," Jared said, after a few seconds. He shook his head. "I would have spent the entire day casting nightmare scenarios, which would have done nothing for my peace of mind, and that always sends Diablo into a frenzy. He took exception to everything that day as it was; if I had been in a mood, he would have tried murder on anyone in his path."

"I am glad to tell you now," Jensen said. "And I am more than glad you will be here this winter."

"We are glad to be here as well," Jared said simply. "It is a most beautiful place, though I must tell you Genevieve's enthusiasm is in very great part because she wishes to travel on to see the ruins at Pompeii."

"Pompeii!" Jensen exclaimed. He had been fascinated by the reports in recent years of the ruins there, but had hardly expected such an interest from Genevieve. Jeff could barely be persuaded to take notice, though Jensen thought he might succeed in tempting Jeff's interest with some of the mosaics and murals that were being uncovered.

"Indeed," Genevieve said, entering the room with Jeff on her heels. "Is it not fascinating to think of life so long ago?"

Before she and Jensen could properly explore the subject, though--and to Jared and Jeff's very great relief, Jensen was sure--they were interrupted by the arrival of several bottles of chilled Prosecco, delivered by the very impressive majordomo who ran the house. The wine was light and crisp, its bubbles foaming over the delicate glasses, a quite excellent choice to celebrate the afternoon.

Plans were laid for excursions to the many small towns along the lake's winding banks, and a discussion begun to plan more substantial journeys south to Florence and Venice and Rome to explore the many diversions of those cities. Pompeii was proposed; and to balance out Jensen and Genevieve's ardor for classical antiquities, the more modern and civilized destination of Vienna was mentioned.

Jensen almost could not conceive that his life had expanded to include such possibilities. He fumbled badly in trying to explain as much to Jeff on their trip back to their home, and though Jeff smiled at his enthusiasm, he seemed as eager as Jensen to see where this new life might take them.

**Author's Note:**

> I thank one or the other (or both!) of them every time I post something, but this one is really indebted to them: withdiamonds who loves Regencies even more than I do, and who listened to me babble insanely on g-chat one weekend in January about this crazy idea and who then kept waving and cheerleading and letting me work out ideas on her; and without_me, who read the whole thing a ridiculous number of times, and caught all my grammar issues and character inconsistencies and who tried her best to settle my out-of-control style in this one. The adverb abuse is so not her fault, and seriously, any grammatical error is because I changed something after she'd already gone through. I would not have finished this without the two of them.
> 
> Thank you also to buff_iroh, who did not run screaming to the mods at the state of my rough draft but drew my guys for me! And tremendous thanks to wendy and thehighwaywoman, who mod a crazy-big Big Bang with clarity and coherency and organization, and make it so we just have to write, not fuss about any details.


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